Father Figure
by 3rdgal
Summary: Alan and Don are held hostage by a troubled young man.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the characters and I don't make any money off of them.

**A/N:** As always, thanks to my wonderful beta and sounding board, ritt, for all of her help!

"Easy, Donny."

Don barely registered his father's soothing voice over the pounding in his head and the throbbing in his leg as he struggled to keep up with the older man's steps.

"Nice and slow," Alan whispered in his son's ear.

"Not too slow if you want to make it out of here alive," an angry voice growled behind them.

Don's heart sped up at the threat, knowing the man ushering them forward wouldn't hesitate to shoot Alan – or to put another bullet in _him_. Biting his lip and increasing his concentration, Don managed to speed up his gait. He felt a sharp pain followed by a trickle of warm blood as he bit through his lip. He stifled a moan as he squeezed his father's shoulder against the rising level of agony.

"It's okay," Alan said firmly as he tightened his grip around Don's waist. "We'll get there when we get there."

"I said faster," the man behind them hissed as he stepped closer. He callously pressed the barrel of his gun against Don's neck. "Or should I just eliminate the problem all together?"

Alan cast a look of anger mixed with worry over his shoulder at the gunman. "Maybe if you hadn't shot him in the first place," he growled.

"Watch it, old man," their captor sneered as he cocked his gun. "Or I _will_ take care of the problem, once and for all."

Alan bit back a retort, sensing that it wouldn't take much more to set the man off, and returned his focus to Don. "Almost there."

Don weakly raised his head and squinted through a haze of pain at the manager's office that lay several feet in front of them. "Are not," he breathed.

"Don't talk back to your father," Alan gently chided. "Actually, don't talk at all. Just keep breathing – nice and slow – and putting your feet forward."

"Yeah, listen to your daddy, Fed."

Don silently cursed the man, wanting nothing more than to smack the smug look off his face, and punch his lights out for threatening to shoot his father. He opened his mouth to speak but only managed to gasp as a fresh wave of pain radiated upward from his leg. His good leg buckled, and Don clung to his father's neck like a drowning man to a life preserver. "Dad," he whispered desperately.

"I've got you," Alan promised him as he tightened his grip on the arm draped across his shoulders. "Just hang onto me, okay?"

Don nodded as he let his head sag onto Alan's shoulder. At his father's urging, Don somehow managed to keep his feet moving forward.

"Aww, how sweet," the man behind them sneered.

Alan snapped, "We could go faster if you'd help."

"You don't want my help. My help involves putting a bullet in his brain."

"And mine too, I suppose," Alan spat.

"No, I do need at least one living hostage."

"How smart of you..." Alan trailed off. "What am I supposed to call you anyway?"

"How about the man with a gun?" he growled in response. "The man who decides if you live or die? Take your pick."

"How about Barry?" Alan answered, slightly out of breath from supporting almost all of Don's weight.

"Whatever floats your boat, old man."

"Good," Alan grunted as they reached the office door. He leaned his son against the door jamb and caught his breath. "I once had a friend named Barry."

"Touching," the gunman drawled, gesturing for Alan to carry Don to the back of the office.

"Dumbest guy ever born," Alan snorted as he gathered the younger man against him. "Used to drag race down the roads in the mountains. Made a big mistake one day that cost him his life." Alan pointedly stared at Barry. "Hate to see that mistake repeated." Alan gently led Don further inside the office, effectively blocking their view of the outside world, as well as the world's view of them.

"Yeah?" Barry snarled. "Well I ain't dumb." He followed them into the office and ripped the manager's desk phone and fax out of the wall, tossing it into the store area. He unplugged the internet and power cables from the office computer and they soon joined the telephone. Scanning the office for any other forms of communication and finding none, he smiled at his captives. "I'll leave you two be for now." He turned on his heel to leave when Alan's voice stopped him.

"Wait! We're in a convenience store – can I at least get some water and medical supplies?"

"I said I ain't dumb," Barry hissed. "The weaker your boy there is, the less likely either of you two are to try to escape." He laughed at the angry look that appeared on Alan's face. "And a warning – if I even _suspect_ that you're thinking about leaving this office, I'll put three more bullets into your son, one at a time in his knees and stomach. Got it?"

Alan swallowed down a sick feeling and meekly nodded.

"Glad we understand each other." With that, he closed the office door and locked it, leaving his hostages alone while he checked his weapon and waited for the police to arrive. He'd made sure the clerk had seen him shoot the Fed before letting the pregnant young woman 'escape'. Truth be told, he had no qualms about injuring her, but he knew a father and son being held hostage together would be easier to control. Hell, with any luck, he might even get the FBI themselves down here for the big show. Smiling, he went about making his preparations for the upcoming standoff.

--

As soon as Barry had left, Alan wasted no time in turning his attention back to his injured son. He gently gripped Don's arm and pressed him to sit on the floor with his back against the wall. Carefully gripping his injured leg, Alan straightened it so that it was lying flat on the floor. "Sorry," he choked out as Don gasped in pain. "I need to check your wound."

"I know," Don whispered faintly, his fists clenched at his sides. "Go on."

Alan took a deep breath and lightly tugged at the torn and bloody denim covering Don's right thigh, forcing himself to ignore the way his son's entire body tensed against the pain. Rather than apologize again, Alan concentrated on being as quick and gentle as possible. Moving the fabric to the side, he saw a small, bloody hole where the bullet had entered his son's body. It was bleeding, but thankfully not too heavily, and Alan suspected continued pressure on the wound would stop it. He released the denim and let it slide back in place as he looked Don in the eye. "Do I need to...?"

"Check the back," Don grunted. "Yes, you do."

Alan somehow wasn't comforted by his son's familiarity with examining gunshot wounds, and made a mental note to discuss the matter with Don once they were both out of this awful situation. For now, he placed a hand on Don's right shoulder and hip, slowly nudging him to roll onto his left side. He let his hand remain there as Don's breathing sped up in reaction to moving. When his son's breathing had reached a more normal rate, Alan patted his shoulder. "Try to hold still and I'll be as quick as I can."

Not trusting himself to speak, Don merely nodded and clenched his eyes shut. Where the hell was Charlie with one of those boring math lectures when he needed the distraction? His thoughts were yanked back to his present situation as a white hot fire burned in the back of his leg. "Ah!"

"I'm so sorry, Donny," Alan spoke with tears in his eyes. "Almost done." Alan pulled on the denim again until he could see a large bloody hole where the bullet had left his son's body. His heart sank as he saw how much heavier the bleeding from this hole was. Placing a hand on Don's shoulder, he gave it a light squeeze. "Can you hold this position long enough for me to find a bandage of some sort?"

Don was gritting his teeth against the pain, but shakily nodded to his father. Alan sprang up and looked around the office. All hopes of finding a first aid kit were dashed as he saw a hook on the wall with a sign that read 'Kit under cash register.' _Of course it is,_ he thought bitterly. He scanned the office, his eyes landing on a long sleeved, plaid shirt. Alan grabbed it and began tearing it into long strips as he knelt by Don's side. Once he completed his task, he patted Don's hip. "This is going to hurt."

"I know," Don groaned. "Just do it, Dad."

Alan nodded as he wadded up a strip and placed it directly over the front of his son's leg. He placed a second bundle over the exit wound and wrapped a third strip around the leg to hold those in place. Taking a deep breath to steel his nerves, Alan prayed for forgiveness and cinched the strip as tight as he could. Despite Don's best efforts to remain stoic, a sound of pure agony was ripped from his throat, followed by muffled moans as he buried his face against the wall. Alan hurriedly tied a second, third, and fourth strip around his son's injury, completing the makeshift bandage. He reached up and eased Don back to a seated position on the office floor. "How's that?" he asked as he gently caressed the side of his head.

"Not too tight," Don panted as sweat rolled down his face. "Good job."

"I hope I never have to do that again," Alan whispered as he took a left over strip of cloth and mopped at the moisture.

Don wearily smiled as his eyes slid shut. "...Makes two of us."

--

Barry, real name Chris Rutherford, was busy at work on a sensitive project as well. He sat on the floor in the middle of the store, surrounded by a massive assortment of wires, circuit boards, and a large satchel of goodies acquired especially for this occasion. He periodically glanced up from his work, checking to see if the small town sheriff and deputies had showed up yet. He chuckled as the station remained deserted, knowing that it would take the pregnant girl a while to get help as she was having to travel by foot. Even if she had thought to grab her keys before fleeing, she would have been shocked to see that they were no longer under the counter where she usually kept them. Chris had made sure to grab them when he'd helped the girl pick up the display of lighters that he'd 'accidentally' knocked behind the counter. He glanced up toward the road, making sure his sign was still in place: Gas Leak! Station Closed Until Further Notice. He and his hostages would have some nice, quality alone time while they waited on law enforcement to arrive.

_Yes,_ Rutherford thought to himself with a dark smile. _So far my plan is going perfectly._

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

"Dad," Don said as he dragged his eyes open.

Alan turned to look at his son, his heart aching at Don's pained expression. "Yes?"

"See if there's anything we can use."

"For?" Alan inquired as he stood. "Barry took all forms of communication out of here."

"Just check around," Don suggested as he tried to ignore the ever-increasing pain in his leg.

Alan nodded and moved around the office, waiting for something useful to jump out at him. Mostly, all he saw were stacks of papers: invoices, schedules, sales numbers, and inventory request forms. He moved to four foot tall filing cabinet and pulled at one of the drawers, frowning as it didn't budge. _Probably nothing but files in there anyway,_ he thought as he started to move away.

"Force it open," Don told him.

"I can't," Alan argued. "He'll hear it and come in here and shoot you again. I'm not taking that risk."

Don insisted, "It may be our only way out."

"If it doesn't involve you and me leaving together, then it's not an option. Got that, Don Eppes?"

"Dad-"

"No," Alan stated in a tone that brooked no argument. "Now, hush for a minute and let me look." Nothing else in the office seemed any more promising, and soon Alan found himself in front of the manager's desk. He took a seat in the office chair and slid the middle drawer open to reveal an assortment of pens and pencils, paper clips, highlighters, and other various supplies.

"Anything?"

"Just office supplies," Alan sighed. He half-heartedly pulled at the drawers lining the right side of the desk, not surprised when they refused to open. "Locked."

"Efficient manager," Don said in an attempt at humor.

Alan leaned back in the chair and wiped a hand across his face. "What now?"

"Office supplies?" Don asked, his voice perking up for the first time since he'd been shot.

"Yes," his father replied in confusion.

"Paper clips?"

"Several."

"Help me slide over there," Don said eagerly, already struggling to move.

"Okay, easy," Alan said as he quickly returned to Don's side, afraid that his son was going to hurt himself even more. The older man slowly shifted him to lean against the desk. "Now what?"

"Hand me a paper clip." Don blinked the sweat out of his eyes and forced himself to take slow, deep breaths. The move, though he wasn't about to worry his father, had made the pain in his leg flare up to new levels, and Don wanted to get this done before he did anything ungraceful – like pass out face first on the floor.

"Here," Alan spoke softly as he dropped the requested item into Don's outstretched hand. He watched in part awe and part amusement as Don quickly formed the paper clip into a new shape.

Holding the item up for his dad to see, Don triumphantly beamed. "Lock pick."

"I see." Alan raised an eyebrow. "They teach you this at Quantico?"

Don was already fiddling with the lock, and didn't look up as he answered, "Um, sure."

"I don't even want to know," Alan rolled his eyes. "Though if it helps get us out of here..." He trailed off as he heard a soft click and smiled as Don pulled the top drawer open.

"Voila," Don said as he sagged against the desk in exhaustion.

"Good job, Donny. Now, you just rest there and let me keep looking." Alan hid a small frown as Don willingly complied with his order, knowing his son must really be hurting if he wasn't arguing anymore. Pushing the worrisome thought to the side, Alan began rummaging through the drawers, finally finding something that lifted his spirits – an unopened bottle of water and a cell phone. He grinned at Don and showed him the items. "Looks like we're in business."

--

Chris finished taping a wire to the hinge of the front door and stepped back to admire his handiwork. He officially had every single entry point – doors or even windows that might be broken to give entry – hooked up to their own wire, the dozens of which ran back to the exact middle of the store. Rutherford fought down a smug peal of laughter as he studied the display of beer in the middle of the store – the same display that had been there for days, but that he had just now subtly rearranged. Instead of surrounding a life sized cardboard cutout of a NASCAR driver proudly standing atop his car, the display now hid a more sinister item.

Rutherford moved to the cases and peered over the edge, down the floor below. His eyes lit up in excitement as he studied his creation. It had taken him months to get all the supplies he needed without raising anyone's suspicion, and another month after that to choose his target, case the location, and develop his master plan. Admittedly he'd never dreamed that he would be fortunate enough to wind up with a Fed as a hostage, but Chris wasn't about to argue with his luck. Eyeing the hidden device one more time, he moved to sit behind the cash register.

Now that his bomb was wired up and activated, all he had to do was wait for the locals to show up. Then he would really have his fun.

--

"Damn," Alan swore as he studied the cell phone.

"What?" Don asked weakly.

"There's not much of a charge. I doubt we'll even get a full minute out of it. Who do I call? 911? We're on a cell phone and I certainly don't know our address. You?"

Don shook his head. "Call the FBI."

"Like Megan or David?"

"Don't know their numbers. All programmed in my cell or written in my wallet."

"And that monster out there has our cells and our wallets," Alan replied angrily.

"Call the main office – I know that number. Tell them..." Don trailed off as he tried to catch his breath. "Tell them call my team."

Alan masked his worry at Don's growing struggle to breathe as he called out the phone number. Alan pressed the send button and eyed his son as the phone in his ear rang. Don was growing paler and, Alan suspected, growing hotter as well. The most troubling thing was the shortness of breath that he seemed to run into every time he spoke for a prolonged period.

"Los Angeles FBI Office," a cheerful voice announced in his ear. "How may I direct your call?"

"I'm with Special Agent Don Eppes and we have an emergency situation," Alan informed the operator. "I need to speak with his team immediately!"

"One mom-"

"The phone may cut out soon," Alan interrupted her. "Tell them we're at a gas station in-" He stopped as the cell went silent in his ear. "Hello? Hello?" Sighing, Alan tossed the phone back into the desk drawer. "It's dead."

"And so are you," Barry growled as he threw open the door. "Who in the hell were you just speaking to?"

"I was telling my son that he would be okay," Alan snapped, holding his ground against the mad gunman in front of him.

Barry's eyes trailed down to the open desk drawer and he stepped forward to see inside. Alan sucked in a deep breath and slid the drawer shut. The gunman cocked his head and gave him a menacing grin. "What are you hiding?"

"Nothing," Alan protested.

"Really? Step against that cabinet," Barry ordered him as he gestured with his gun. When the older man hesitated, Barry stepped toward Don and put the gun to his head. "Don't make me say it again."

"No," Alan pleaded as he moved to obey. "Please don't hurt him."

"Then stand there and shut up." Confident that the old man wouldn't try anything with his son at the end of a gun barrel, Barry directed his attention to the injured agent. "Who was daddy talking to?"

Don remained silent as he studied the dangerous expression on the other man's face, trying to figure out if the truth or a lie was the best way to go. "He was talking to me," Don said, swallowing back a surge of panic as the gun pressed harder against his forehead.

Barry deftly opened the desk drawer with his left hand and pulled out the cell. He angrily pegged it toward Don's face, smiling as it made a loud crack against the agent's nose. Don closed his eyes but didn't flinch, afraid he might set the weapon off. "_Who_ was he talking to?"

"The FBI," Alan spoke up. "I called the main office, but the phone cut out before I could tell them anything. Please, I won't do it again."

Barry glared at the older man. "You're damn straight you won't, or I really will kill your boy." Alan let out a sigh of relief, assuming Don was safe for the time being. "But you still need to be taught a lesson." Alan's blood ran cold at Barry's words. He watched seemingly in slow motion as their captor picked up a foot and stomped directly on Don's wound, grinning as both father and son let out a yell of anguish. Alan looked like he was about to rush him, so Barry cocked the gun and pinned Don's head against the wall with it. "I wouldn't."

"Please," Alan begged. "Stop hurting him."

"Sure," the man agreed as he ground his foot into Don's wound before letting the injured agent slump to the floor. "Remember, it'll be worse next time. A lot worse."

Alan watched as Barry left the room and locked the door behind him. He was immediately at Don's side, staring helplessly as his son lay on the floor, panting for air and clutching his wound. "Donny?" he called softly as he brushed a hand through the younger man's hair. "Oh God, I'm so sorry."

"Not..." Don tried to speak, frightened by how hard that small task had become. "...Fault."

"It is," Alan whispered despairingly. "I hate to do this, but I need to fix your bandage."

Don met his father's eyes as his stomach knotted in anticipation of the agony that would cause. "Dad..."

"I know, son," he soothed. He didn't want to cause Don any more suffering, but he had to get the bleeding stopped, or at least slow it down. "I'll be quick."

"Dad," Don whispered again, his voice breaking on the one syllable.

"I know," he repeated as he began tightening the bandages. Don's slippery, blood soaked hands were on his, desperately trying to stop him.

"Please."

Alan blinked back tears as he moved his son's hands and cupped his cheek. "Be strong for me, Don."

The strength and conviction in his father's voice broke through the haze of pain, and Don forced himself to keep his hands away from the injury. It became more difficult to breathe and he clutched his thigh as Alan added to and tightened more cloth strips around the original bandage. Don managed to keep his hands out of his father's way, but he dug his fingers into the flesh above the wound, feeling the need to do something to stop the torment. By the end of the ordeal, Don was breathless and silent, and a slight tremor had begun to course through his body.

Alan joined his son on the floor and pulled him into a sitting position, propped against the wall. Don leaned heavily against his father's shoulder as he closed his eyes and tried to overcome the relentless ache in his leg. He was startled as something hard and curved pressed against his mouth. Opening his eyes, he saw Alan holding the water bottle against his lips. Don reached up and took the bottle from his father, but found his hand was shaking too badly to drink. Alan lightly covered his son's hand with his own and together they held the bottle while Don drank his fill. "Thanks," he told his father as Alan capped the bottle and hid it in the bottom desk drawer.

"I'm sorry I can't do more."

"You're doing plenty, Dad." Don sighed and his brow furrowed in concentration. "I wish my mind didn't feel so foggy right now. We need to figure out what this guy is up to if we want to have a chance to make it out of here alive."

"I know," Alan agreed. "I'll work on that part and you try to rest."

"No, Dad," the younger man protested. "I need to be awake."

"You need to be _alert_," Alan countered. "And you won't be if you don't get some rest. I promise I'll wake you if anything happens." He pulled his son's head to lie on his shoulder to encourage him to take his advice. "Sleep, Donny."

He didn't want to – knew he shouldn't – but his father's shoulder was so warm and inviting and the pain in his leg was so agonizing that Don allowed himself to slip into unconsciousness.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Martha Bell wiped the sweat from her forehead as she slaved over her flower garden. She hated weeding more than anything else in the world, and really regretted that she had put the chore off for so long. Instead of a quick hour or so task, she'd let the garden become so overrun that it had turned into a morning-long ordeal.

A low rumble of thunder sounded in the distance and Martha looked up at the darkening sky. Deciding to call it quits before the rain started to fall, she wearily stood and stretched her back. She was about to head inside when a very odd sight caught her eye. A few yards down the road a young, pregnant girl was stumbling toward her. That in itself was odd, but the fact that the nearest form of civilization was at least three miles in any direction added to her concern. _What in the world is that girl doing on the road?_ Martha wondered. _Car trouble maybe?_

She walked down her large sloping front yard to check on the girl, who started frantically waving as soon as she spotted Martha.

"Help me!"

Martha's heart skipped a beat as she rushed to the girl. "What's wrong, Dear? You're not having your baby, are you?"

The young girl shook her head. "He shot him!" she hysterically sobbed. "He shot him. He was going to k-kill me, too, but I... I ran."

"Who are you talking about?" Martha asked as she gripped the girl's arm and guided her into the house.

"The gas station," the girl cried. "There's a man in there. He shot him right in front of me!"

Martha sat the girl in an armchair, grabbed her cordless phone and dialed the local sheriff's number. "Lucy?" she greeted as the lone county dispatcher answered the phone. "I need you to send an ambulance out to my house. I've got a pregnant girl here and she's very upset." Martha swallowed as she saw the fear in the young girl's eyes. "Better send the sheriff, too. I think we may have a situation down at Turner's Gas and Go."

--

Alan looked down at his son where he fitfully dozed on his shoulder. He reached out and stroked Don's cheek to try to soothe the restlessness away, softly smiling when his son calmed in response to his touch. Alan leaned his head against the wall behind him and studied the ceiling tiles overhead.

_A simple father and son fishing trip,_ he mused. _How in the world did it come to this?_

_They'd been camping and fishing for three days, and were headed back home as planned. The car still had half a tank when they came upon Turner's Gas and Go, but Alan insisted they stop because they didn't have any idea how long it would be until they came upon another gas station. That was the case he presented to Don, but in actuality Alan loved to stop at small mom and pop stores to get a taste of the local culture. He suspected Don knew his true motive, but he agreed nonetheless. _

_They pulled in and Don pumped the gas while Alan headed inside, where he was greeted by a young, pregnant clerk with a friendly smile and a wealth of local knowledge. They conversed while Alan took in the impulse items near the register, waiting for Don to join him. He looked up as the door opened and a young man in hunter's clothes sauntered in, immediately going to the cash register. He tipped his hat at Alan in greeting, before striking up a rather flirtatious conversation with the cashier. Alan sighed as he moved to the back of the store, remembering what it had been like to be young and impulsive. He heard a skittering noise and saw that the young hunter had knocked over a display of lighters. He was bent over behind the counter as he picked them up, all the while apologizing repeatedly._

_The bell over the door jangled again and Alan saw Don arrive through the front door and walk down the aisle toward him. "Hey, Dad!" he called. "You ready?"_

"_Let me grab a drink," Alan answered as he pulled a bottle of water from the cooler. "Would you like anything?"_

"_A Coke," Don replied as he fished his wallet out of his back pocket. His jacket pulled back as he did so, revealing his service weapon._

"_Whoa, man," the hunter said in admiration. "Nice piece."_

_The pregnant clerk looked distinctly nervous so Don flashed her his most reassuring smile. "It's okay," he said as he flipped open his badge. "I'm an FBI agent."_

"_What are you doing up in these parts?" the hunter inquired._

"_Vacationing."_

"_You carry your weapon with you off duty?"_

"_Yeah," Don laughed. "Guess I'm never really off duty."_

"_Good point," the hunter nodded to Don as Alan joined the group at the front of the store. "I hate to hear that though." The young man quickly drew a gun from the back of his pants and fired, hitting Don in the right leg. As the agent lay on the floor in shock, the hunter seized Don's service weapon and turned it on Alan. "Better put those drinks down, old man."_

_Alan did as told and started to move toward his son._

"_Stop right there," the gunman warned. "Or I'll put another bullet in his head."_

"_He needs help," Alan argued. _

"_Maybe so, but he ain't getting it right now." The man dragged the frantic clerk from behind the counter. "Get the Fed's wallet and phone out of his pocket." She was frozen in shock as she stared at his gun. "Now!"_

_She bent down and gently dug through the agent's pockets. "It's okay," Don rasped. "Just do what he says." She nodded and handed the requested items over to the gunman._

"_Now get the old man's, too."_

_Alan retrieved his phone and wallet, handing them to the girl. "Here you go, sweetheart."_

_She smiled at him in appreciation as she shakily took the items and handed them to the hunter. "Now, stand over there and don't move," he growled, gesturing to a spot near the door. She obeyed and he turned his back on her as he hovered menacingly over the wounded agent. "You really here on vacation?" he demanded._

"_Yes," Don spoke evenly._

"_That right, pops?"_

"_Yes, that's right," Alan agreed._

"_Vacationing with daddy?" the gunman sneered. "How sweet is that?"_

_All three men looked toward the front door as the bell rang, announcing that the pregnant clerk had just escaped. Don and Alan were worried that he might shoot her, but the hunter surprised them by shrugging. "Guess she'll be calling the cops soon enough. Well then, we might as well get settled in."_

"Dad?"

Don's tired voice drew Alan back to the present. "Yes?"

"Can I have more water?" Alan nodded as he removed the bottle from its hiding place. He stopped short of handing it to Don, instead holding it to his son's lips while he drank. He watched with dread as Don finished the contents and looked up at him. "Don't suppose there's another bottle somewhere?"

"Sorry, Don."

"That's okay," Don forced a smile to his face. "I'll be fine." He paused to try and even out his breathing, hating the shortness of breath that seemed to be plaguing him non-stop. "You figure out anything about Barry?"

Alan thoughtfully studied Don's face. "When I think back, I could swear he let the clerk escape on purpose."

"Crossed my mind, too."

"But I have no idea what that would mean."

Don frowned. "It means he wanted someone to know that he's here, that he has hostages, and that he's not afraid to hurt them," he panted, exhausted from the effort of speaking.

"That doesn't sound promising at all," Alan sighed.

"No, it doesn't."

--

Chris had been sitting on the floor next to his bomb for about thirty minutes. He was normally a very patient man – he could sit in a deer blind for hours on end – but he was anxious to resolve his current situation. Frustration that maybe things weren't going exactly as planned began to overwhelm him, and he climbed to his feet and flew to the manager's office. He swung the door open and trained his gun on the hostages that were sitting side-by-side across the room from him. The expression on the father's face was one of concern, love, and a fierce desire to protect his son, and that angered Chris to no end as he thought about how his own father could have cared less about him.

"Get up," he ordered Alan.

"What?"

"I said get up!" he roared. "Or the Fed is dead!"

"All right," Alan said as he gently lifted Don's head from his shoulder. "I'm getting up." As soon as Alan was on his feet, Rutherford yanked him to the doorway and slammed him against the door jamb.

"Don't move," he threatened as he shoved the gun into Alan's stomach. "Got it?" Alan nodded and Chris moved to the other man's side. "Why aren't the local cops here yet?"

"What?" Don asked in confusion. How was he supposed to know- "Ah!" he cried out as Chris slammed the butt of his gun against the side of his head.

"Tell me why they're not here yet!"

"I don't know," he managed to gasp around the intense throbbing in his skull.

"Wrong answer," he hissed as he drove his foot into the leg wound. He cackled as Don's face drained of color and slapped his cheek to keep the injured agent awake. "That clerk left a long time ago. The local authorities should have been here by now. What exactly did you say on that phone call to your office?"

"Nothing!" Alan insisted from the doorway. "I swear!"

Grinning malevolently, Chris shook his head. "I don't believe that, old man." With a slow, deliberate motion he pressed the gun to Don's temple and looked over his shoulder. "One last chance to tell me what I want to know."

"I swear I didn't say anything. I didn't get a chance to!"

Chris knew the man was probably telling the truth, but he was looking for an excuse to vent. "I warned you." He cocked the gun and his finger began to squeeze the trigger.

"No!" Alan's cry was drowned out by the deafening sound of a gunshot.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

"Now, Darla," Sheriff Roy Morrison spoke. "Are you feeling a little better?"

The young girl nodded as she wiped at her cheek with a tissue.

"Good," the gray haired man smiled. "Can you try telling me what happened? Just start at the beginning and take it slow."

"I was working my shift today," Darla whispered. "Two men, not locals, came into the store. Father and son, I think." She paused as she tried to remember. "Yeah, they were father and son. The older guy was talking to me. He was really friendly." The young girl sniffled and quickly dabbed at her eyes. "Then another guy dressed like a hunter came in. He started talking really nice to me and giving me a big smile. No one's done that in a long time. Not since..." Darla trailed off as she dropped her gaze to her swollen belly.

"It's okay, Darla," the sheriff soothed.

"Here, sweetheart," Martha said as she brought a cup of tea into the living room. After the girl took it from her, Martha sat next to her on the couch and gently squeezed her knee. "You're doing good, Darla. Isn't that right, Roy?"

"You sure are," he nodded. "Keep going."

"Then the old guy's son came in and..." She trailed off as tears threatened again. "When he was getting his wallet out, I saw a gun on his belt."

The sheriff inquired, "He was armed?"

"Yes, but he showed me his badge and told me he was an FBI agent. Said not to worry." She smiled faintly. "He had a really warm smile, and friendly eyes. I trusted him right away. Then the other guy – the hunter – started asking him questions about what he was doing there." She sipped the tea and let the warm liquid calm her nerves. "Then when the FBI agent told him that he was never... never off d-duty..." Darla let out a sob and leaned her head on Martha's shoulder. "He just shot him."

"The hunter shot the agent?" Morrison pressed her.

"Yes," Darla was crying freely now. "In the leg. He made... He made me take the guy's gun and cell phone. His father's, too. I felt so bad for him. He was just lying there in pain. There w-was blood everywhere. So much blood."

Martha wrapped her arms around the young girl and held her close as her body shook with sobs. "Shh, you've done very well, Darla. It's okay. Sheriff Morrison will get the guy." Martha glanced at the man over the top of Darla's head. "Right, Sheriff?"

"You better believe it, Mrs. Bell."

--

"Reeves," Megan answered her cell. She listened to the voice on the other end for a few minutes and then frowned.

"What?" David mouthed to her as he and Colby ate their lunch.

"Okay, we'll check that out," Megan spoke. "Thanks." She flipped the phone shut and gave her fellow agents a funny look. "That was the operator at the office. She says a man called a little while ago claiming to be with Don and that they were in trouble, but the phone cut out before she could get any more information."

"Did they get the number that called?" David asked.

Megan shook her head. "The call was so short it barely registered in the operator's system. They're going to see if they can pull all of the incoming calls for today, but that's a long list. It may be a day or two before they can give us any info."

"I thought Don was on vacation," Colby said.

"He is," David nodded. "Charlie had a conference, so Don and Alan decided to have a little father-son time. They were going fishing somewhere north of here."

"You think that was Alan?" Colby queried. "Maybe they ran into some kind of trouble?"

"I hope not," Megan frowned. "Do you know where they were going, David?"

"No," he told her. "All Don said was somewhere north of here. Far away from the city."

"Well I guess we ought to try to track him down," Megan said as she flagged down their waitress.

"I kind of hope something is wrong," Colby grumbled.

"What?" the other two agents exclaimed in disbelief.

"Because if there isn't," Colby stated around the last bite of his steak. "Don's going to be very upset that we disturbed his vacation."

--

"You could have killed him," Alan whispered accusingly.

"You're right," Barry growled back as he held the other man pinned against the door to the office. "Now do you fully understand the seriousness of your situation?"

Alan forced the his voice to sound submissive, terrified that he might set off the gunman's temper again. "Yes." He forced himself to hold Barry's gaze – to ignore the groans of pain and restless movements coming from inside the office.

"Good," Barry said as he gave Alan a hard shove before releasing his grip. "You might just make it out of here alive." He glanced into the room where Don lay in a crumpled heap and chuckled. "Might not want to waste your time on him, though. He looks to be in bad shape."

"I'm not giving up on him," Alan stated firmly.

"Why not?" Barry asked sarcastically. "Because he's your son?"

"Yes," the older man sadly nodded. "That's a father's job – to be there for his children."

"Yeah?" Barry spat. "I guess not every father gets that memo." Alan was about to respond but Barry waved the gun in his face. "I don't want to hear it. You want to waste your time on some dying Fed, you go right ahead and be my guest." He pushed Alan into the room and slammed the door shut, stalking to the front of the store and trying to ignore the memories of his own father as they bubbled to the surface.

--

Alan dropped to his knees by his son's side and eased him into a seated position. He gently cupped his cheek, guiding Don to look at him. The younger man's brown eyes were clouded with pain as he struggled to catch his breath. "In and out, Donny. Nice and slow."

Don blinked in response as he tried to follow his father's instructions. After an eternity, he finally managed a nice, deep breath that eased the burning in his lungs. "Thanks," he whispered, the one word barely audible.

Alan didn't speak, just graced Don with a loving smile. His expression faltered a bit as he moved his hand to trace the angry bullet graze that now marred his son's right cheek and temple. Having used all of the shirt scraps on Don's leg, Alan settled for using the hem of his shirt to gently clean the blood from his son's face. "That was too close," the older Eppes whispered to himself. Much to his surprise, Don's hand reached up and lightly covered his.

"I'm okay," he assured him. At his father's doubtful look, Don managed a small smile. "Not one hundred percent, but not dead either."

"Thank God for that."

"Got an idea, too," Don informed him.

"Go ahead," Alan prompted him as he continued cleaning his son's face.

"Seems like a good father figure might influence him." Don paused and studied his father's dubious expression. "You're the best father a guy could have – I know that for a fact. If you get a chance… you should talk to him. See what's in his head."

"What if I make him mad?" Alan demanded. "I'm not going to be responsible for getting you hurt again."

"It's the only thing we've got to work with," Don insisted. "Do _you_ have a better idea?"

"You mean besides never stopping at a small town gas station again?"

"Dad…" Don groaned in frustration.

"No, I don't have a better idea." The older man sighed as he sat next to the wall and pulled his son's head down to again rest on his shoulder. "I'm just not sure that yours is all that great either."

Don closed his eyes and drew comfort from his father's fingers as they ran through his hair. "Didn't say mine was great," Don whispered sleepily. "But it _is_ the only thing we have to work with."

--

Chris looked up from the floor as he heard three vehicles pulling into the gas station. A wide smile crossed his face as he recognized the county sheriff's and deputy's cars, and realized his plan was going to work after all. He stood in front of the large glass window and watched as three law enforcement officers climbed out of the vehicles. In no time, Chris had singled out his person of interest and locked gazes with him. He felt the fire of pure, intense hatred burning through his veins. _Time to face your demons, you worthless old man._

--

Sheriff Morrison had left Darla in Martha's capable hands and summoned his two deputies, radioing them to meet him just down the street from Turner's. He'd led the mini-caravan of three into the lot, making sure they parked far enough from the store to be safe, but close enough to see what was going on. His gut had been tingling non-stop ever since hearing Darla's story because he was certain the hunter wanted law enforcement officers to come – which couldn't possibly be a good thing.

Morrison saw a figure standing in the storefront window and realized the man was looking directly at him. He returned the stare and squinted as the hunter's likeness started to stir up an old memory. As the sheriff climbed out of the car, the image slammed into him at full force. "Oh no," he whispered, leaning against the squad car as his knees suddenly went weak.

His two deputies were immediately at his side. "What's wrong, Sheriff?" the taller of the two deputies asked.

"If that's who I think it is..." Morrison trailed off as he removed his hat and bowed his head. "May God have mercy on us all."

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Alan frowned as he felt Don's forehead. He was hot to the touch and rivers of sweat poured down his face, matting his dark hair. His eyes twitched as he endured some fever induced dream, and he occasionally let out a sound of distress. "Shh, Donny," Alan whispered as he smoothed his hand through his son's hair. "It's okay, I'm here." Don didn't respond, his restlessness actually increasing, so Alan redoubled his efforts. He wrapped an arm around his son and pulled him securely against his chest. Placing his mouth close to Don's ear, the older man continuously whispered soothing words and phrases while gently stroking his son's face and hair. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity to Alan, Don quieted down and peacefully slept with his head pillowed on his father's chest.

Now that Don was resting, Alan let his thoughts drift to the other matter at hand. Don was right – Barry seemed like he could use a good father figure in his life. But how in the world was Alan supposed to step in and use that to their advantage? They'd only been 'acquainted' with their captor for a short while and Alan was hard pressed to find any sympathy for him – not after the torment he kept inflicting on his son. Though he supposed if he could start up a dialogue and get on Barry's good side, then his anger toward Don might dissipate.

The door opened, interrupting Alan's thoughts, and Barry stepped inside the office. "Aw, that's so sweet it's disgusting."

Alan held his tongue and checked his anger, instead trying to look beneath Barry's harsh exterior. "What can I do for you, Barry?"

"I need to show the cops outside that I really do have a hostage," he told him. "So get your butt up and get over here."

"I'll gladly agree to that, but can you please tell me what your goal is? Why did you take this place over today?"

"Mind your own business," Barry snapped as he took a threatening step toward his two captives.

"Okay, okay," Alan held up a hand in supplication. "Just give me a minute – these tired old bones don't move so fast anymore." With the greatest of care, Alan shifted Don so that he was lying on his left side before standing up and meeting Barry's impatient gaze. "Look, Barry-"

"Calling me some randomly assigned name is not going to put us on a personal level," He growled. "Understand?"

"Of course," Alan hastily nodded. "I know I'm in no position to argue or demand, so I want to ask you to do something for me." Barry remained silent so Alan decided to press his luck. "May I please get something for my son to drink? Something for the pain? More bandages for his leg? Please."

"I told you not to waste your time," Barry snapped as he gripped the older man's arm and pulled him into the store. "Although..." He glanced out of the window at the cops who were intensely watching him. "You know what, old man? Since you asked so nicely, I'll let you get him something to drink. All you have to do is stand in front of that window and raise your hands to the good sheriff."

Alan had no illusion that Barry was granting his request because of how he asked, but rather that there was an ulterior motive that he had yet to discover. Still, he could at least get Don some relief in the form of hydration. Alan nervously walked toward the window and raised his hands as he was told. The Sheriff nodded to him and turned to his deputies, gesturing to the inside of the car.

"Okay, that's all I need," Barry said. "Go get your son some water."

Alan made his way across the store, casually studying the maze of wires that crisscrossed the floor as he walked. Opening the cooler, he reached for the water but stopped as he spotted the sports drinks. He knew they would be more beneficial because they contained electrolytes and sugars, and Don needed all the help he could get. "Do you mind if I get one of these?" Alan asked as he held up an orange flavored drink.

"Knock yourself out, just be quick about it."

Hedging his bets, Alan grabbed three of the bottles and bundled them in his arms.

"I believe I said _one_," Barry warned.

"I'm sorry," Alan said ruefully. "You said something to drink. I should have realized. It won't happen again."

The gunman stepped in front of Alan and leaned into him until their noses were almost touching. "Why the sudden change of attitude, pops?"

"No reason. I just want to make sure my son and I make it out of this okay."

"Are you sure you're not trying to get me to let my guard down? Swoop in and knock me out with a blow to the back of my head?"

"No," Alan insisted. "Honestly, I just want my son to be okay."

"Whatever," Barry shrugged. "But you're only taking one bottle." As Alan reluctantly set part of his bounty back in the cooler, Barry eyed the cops outside. They were still watching him like a hawk, even more so now that they saw his hostage. Maybe... "You know what? Grab a couple of those ACE bandages, too."

Alan paused, not sure that he'd heard Barry correctly.

"You don't have all day," Barry's voice was sharp with anger.

Alan quickly came to his senses and grabbed two boxes of bandages. "Pain killers?" he asked hopefully.

"Hell, no! I ought to make you put that stuff up just for asking." He laughed at the remorseful look on his captive's face. "But I won't. Now, be a good little hostage and go back to your room." Barry ushered him so that Alan had to walk in front of the window. It dawned on him that Barry wanted the cops to see what he was carrying, and to realize that there was another hostage, probably injured.

"You're a smart young man," Alan complimented him. "That little demonstration was very well thought out – letting the cops know someone is hurt."

"I told you, I'm not bonding with you, so just shut the hell up! Or maybe you want me to finish off the Fed, huh?"

"No! Of course not. I'm sorry," Alan fell silent as he entered the office, and flinched as Barry angrily slammed the door behind him. "Well, that could've gone better," he muttered to himself.

--

"Any luck getting in touch with Charlie?" David asked as he perched on the side of Megan's desk.

"No," she sighed. "Either he doesn't get a signal, or he doesn't want to be disturbed when he's talking to his math peers. I left him a message that it was urgent for us to find out where his father and brother were vacationing."

David nodded grimly. "I hope he gets it soon."

Colby joined the two agents at Megan's desk and shook his head. "Neither Don nor his dad are answering their phones. It goes straight to voicemail and there's no GPS signal showing up for Don's cell."

"So it's more than likely turned off," Megan theorized.

"Right," Colby stated. "I'm trying to get Don's phone records to see if we can learn anything about where he might be, but..."

"He's not missing, not a no show at work, and phone companies don't like to give out info without a warrant."

"You got it," he told Megan.

"If we could search their house, we might be able to find something useful," Megan thought aloud.

"Still got a problem with that pesky warrant thing," Colby pointed out. "And the fact that breaking and entering is illegal."

"Well," David spoke up. "Technically we wouldn't have to 'break'. I've still got the key Alan gave me during the Russian mob case."

Megan grabbed her jacket and headed for the door. "Well, what are we waiting for?"

David and Colby grabbed their stuff and followed her out.

--

Rutherford stared at the store phone on the counter next to the cash register. He knew how the Sheriff thought, and knew that he would be getting a phone call any second. On cue, the phone loudly jangled and Chris smiled as he picked it up. "Sheriff Morrison, I presume?"

"You know damn well it's me," the angry voice on the line shot back. "What the hell are you doing in my town?"

"What?" Chris mocked. "You don't like visitors?"

"Not unexpected ones, no. And never you."

"I'm hurt, _Sheriff_."

"What do you want?" Morrison demanded.

"I want everyone to know what happened to Gerald." He paused and listened to the other man's breathing increase. "That scares the hell out of you, doesn't it? It'll definitely put a crimp in your cushy job as county sheriff, won't it?"

"Tell me," Morrison growled. "What's to stop me from rushing that store or having a sniper put a bullet in your head?"

"Well," Chris chuckled as he toyed with the law enforcement officer. "First, you don't have a sniper – only the big boys have those. And knowing you as I do, I know you haven't called them for help. Pride always was a flaw of yours. Second, I have hostages where you can't see them, but I can get to them in a hurry. So if you rush me, there's a good chance they'll both die. Wouldn't look too good in an election year, now would it? Third, I have wired every potential entry point to a bomb. If you open the door or the windows, or even if you have a sniper shoot through them and the glass cracks, this bomb will go off, destroying everything within a half-mile radius. And that would look even worse during an election year. Of course, it's not like you and your deputies would be around to care."

"Dammit," Morrison snapped. "_What _do you want?"

"I want publicity – a way to get my story out to the media. And one of the hostages is a Fed, so how about getting some real cops down here? The more, the merrier I always say."

"You're doing all of this just to ruin me?" Morrison furiously demanded.

"No, to clear Gerald's name. Ruining you is just a bonus... _Dad_."

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

"Donny," Alan said as he gently shook his shoulder. "Wake up for me, Son."

"Five more minutes," Don grumbled as he tried to roll away from his father.

"No!" Alan cried as he grabbed Don's shoulder and stopped him before he could roll onto his bad leg. "Wake up, Donny. Come on now."

The injured man's eyes opened and blearily focused on his father's face. "What is it?" He struggled to clear the fog from his brain, at last remembering where they were. "Are you okay?" he asked with a touch of panic in his voice.

Alan placed a reassuring hand on Don's shoulder. "I'm fine. I finally managed to get something for you to drink. Can you sit up for me?"

"Yeah, with a little help."

Alan slowly eased Don up to lean against the wall, and held the drink to his lips. A faint grimace crossed Don's features, but he continued to swallow the cool liquid. He held up a hand and feebly pushed Alan's arm away. "That's plenty, thanks."

"What was that look for?" Alan asked as his heart lodged in his throat. "Did something else happen?"

"No," Don quietly chuckled. "Don't worry."

"Then what?"

"It's just…" Don hesitated as he smiled at his father. "Orange? You know I hate orange."

"Oh," the older man sighed. "Yeah, I did know that. Sorry. I'm just so distracted-"

"Relax, Dad," Don interrupted him. "It's not serious, I promise. I was trying to lighten the mood a little bit."

Alan sat by his son's side and let out a long, drawn out sigh. "Thanks. I really could use that right now." He produced the tensor bandages and gave Don a sympathetic look. "I got these, too. They'll be better for your wound."

Don frowned and swallowed nervously. "Beats the heck out of shirt scraps, huh?"

Alan nodded and gently gripped Don's leg. "Ready?"

Don's face had drained of color and he looked like he was fighting back a wave of sickness. "I guess."

"Tell you what," his father suggested. "How about we talk while I do this? Maybe it'll keep your mind off of it." At Don's nod, Alan proceeded to make the first wrap with the bandage. Don gasped in pain and clenched his eyes shut as he bit his lip. "Talk to me, Donny," Alan urged.

"How'd you get the drink?" Don managed to speak.

"He took me into the store." Alan answered as he continued to wind the bandage around his son's leg. "I wish I could say I saw something that could be useful."

"Nothing?" Don panted through the pain.

Alan met Don's eyes and nervously blinked. "There's a bomb out there, Don. From the looks of the wires on the floor, it's a big one and it's wired to every single way out of this place."

"Damn," the agent swore softly, wincing as Alan tied off the bandage and patted his leg. "Not what I wanted to hear."

"And as for bonding with him? I don't think that's going to work out. He senses that I'm trying and shoots down every attempt I make. I'm afraid if I keep pushing..." Alan flapped a hand at Don, unable to say the thought out loud.

"I know," Don said. He awkwardly lifted his hand and rested it on his father's shoulder. "You have to keep trying, though. That's still our best bet to get out of here."

"Donny-"

"Promise me."

"Don-"

"Promise me, Dad."

Alan didn't know if it was the desperation in his voice, or the tears in his eyes, but Don's statement broke through his defenses. "Okay, Don. I promise."

Satisfied that his father would stay true to his word, Don allowed the exhaustion to creep back into his mind. "Think I'll... sleep now." He was vaguely aware of his father's strong arm as it draped across his shoulders and tightly embraced him.

"Good idea," Alan whispered. "Rest now. I've got you."

--

"What's he want, Sheriff?" the taller of the two deputies, Andrew, asked.

"Attention," Morrison grumbled. "Media coverage, publicity, the whole ball of wax."

"Do you want us to call Bobby?" the second deputy inquired, referring to the county newspaper editor.

"No, Marshall," Morrison snapped. "I don't want you to call Bobby. I'll be damned if we're going to give this psycho what he wants."

"What's the plan then, Sheriff?" Andrew queried.

"Right now, the plan is just to sit here and try to wait him out."

"Are you serious?" Marshall asked in shock.

"Deadly serious."

"Shouldn't we at least call in some backup?" the deputy continued to press.

Andrew cocked his head at the other deputy, signaling him to leave them alone. Marshall nodded and busied himself in his patrol car. "Sheriff? Sure did sound to me like you know this guy. Anything you want to tell me?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact there is." Morrison stood and towered over the younger man. "There are lots of men in this town who would love to become a deputy. Might be in your best interest to keep your mouth shut and do as I say."

Andrew gulped and nodded. "Yes sir, I'll keep that in mind."

--

"This feels weird," Colby muttered as he searched through the papers sitting on the Eppes' coffee table.

"I know," Megan answered from the dining room. "But if they _are_ in trouble, this is our only way of finding them. Unless Charlie ever checks his messages."

"What's up with that anyway?" Colby wondered aloud. "It's a math conference – it's not like he's surrounded by hot babes at the pool."

"You have seen Amita, right?" David asked.

"Okay, good point," Colby grinned.

Megan let out a groan of frustration. "All I see in here are a couple of days worth of newspapers and a box of recipes. Nothing about any vacation spots."

"I've got a math journal, a book of crossword puzzles, and a sack of coupons in here," Colby offered. "Nothing useful."

David walked away from the table just inside the front door and held up an envelope. "Here's the receipt for a fishing license for Alan."

"Does it say what lake it's for?" Megan inquired.

"No, you don't specify a location – it's good for anywhere in the state."

"Would they have to show it when they fished?" Megan asked him.

"No," David chuckled. "Sometimes they do spot checks, but mostly they check it when you leave with your catch to make sure you haven't exceeded the catch limits." Seeing Megan's face brighten, he somberly shook his head. "And no, they don't keep records of that information anywhere."

"So," the female agent sighed. "Back to square zero."

"Maybe not," Colby spoke as he joined Megan at the dining table. "Look at the papers here. One is opened to the weather forecast for Green Valley and the other is opened to rental car companies."

"If they took a rental, they'd have to tell them where they were going," David smiled.

"But we don't know if they took a rental," Megan reminded him. "And if they did, which one would they have used? There's five companies on this page alone."

"Federal employees get discounts with certain companies," David informed them. "My guess is that Don would have used one of them."

"That's a long shot," Megan said hesitantly.

"It's the only thing even close to a lead that we have," Colby said. "Might as well try to follow up on it."

"Okay, assuming that I agreed with that," Megan started. "There's that whole warrant issue. The rental company's not going to just cough up the names of their customers and what they're driving."

"You've obviously never seen my charm at work," Colby winked.

"Twenty bucks says you get nothing," Megan challenged as they departed the Eppes house.

"You're on."

--

Sheriff Morrison sat in his squad car, his hands covering his face, as he pondered the situation at hand. He knew who the gunman was – an unwelcome memory of the past – and he knew who Gerald was, and why the bomber wanted to clear his name. What he didn't know was how in the world he was going to handle this situation. Of course he didn't want the hostages to die, but he couldn't very well let their captor notify the world about what really happened with Gerald. Morrison had almost decided to tell his second in command a half-truth to get him behind his plan, but that idea flew out the window as Marshall came running toward him.

"Sheriff!" the younger man called out in excitement. "I ran the plates on the hostages' truck. It's a rental, so I called the company and got an ID!"

"You what?" Morrison asked, trying to hide his anger. "Did I ask you to do that?"

"No," Marshall answered, his brow creasing in confusion. "But don't we benefit from knowing who he's got in there?"

"We already knew he had a Federal Agent," the sheriff snapped. "What else did we need to know?"

"But now we know who that agent is," Marshall hesitantly pointed out. "And I put in a call to his office."

"You _what?"_ the older man roared.

"I thought th-they should be here," the deputy stammered. "That is one of their agents in there."

"You're right," Andrew spoke as he joined the two men. "The sheriff here just doesn't want a turf war with the Feds. You've never worked with them before, have you?" Marshall shook his head. "Ah, you'll find out soon enough why no one likes them. Next time make sure to run it by the sheriff first, okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." Andrew smiled. "Why don't you check out their truck? See if you can find anything useful." The younger deputy nodded and headed off to do as told. "Okay, Sheriff, I just covered your butt. Mind telling me what's really going on? Why you want to keep this whole incident a secret?"

Morrison eyed his second in command before sighing. "It's not important. No matter what I do now, it's all going to come out."

"_What_ is going to come out?" Andrew moved closer to his boss and lowered his voice. "Talk to me, Roy."

Morrison shook his head. "Let's just face that part when we come to it, okay?" _Besides,_ he added silently. _Maybe I'll get lucky and that idiot will get himself killed before he can say anything about Gerald._

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

Alan had no idea how long he'd been holding Don, but his son seemed to be resting comfortably, all things considered. He didn't really feel up to talking with Barry, but he had promised Don that he would keep trying. Gently laying his son on the floor, Alan stood, stretched his limbs, and slowly made his way to the office door. He took a deep breath and steeled his nerves. "Barry?" he called.

"What did I tell you about leaving that room?" his captor's angry voice called back.

"No, no," Alan spoke quickly. "I'm not leaving, I promise. I just wanted... uh, to talk. Wondered if maybe you needed to talk?"

"To you?" Barry sneered. "No thanks. You don't have what I need."

"What is it that you're after?"

"Do you _want_ me to shoot your son again?" the gunman yelled. "Quit bugging me, old man."

"I don't mean to," Alan replied, his instincts telling him to back down. He glanced at Don, lying on the floor, pale as a sheet, and sucked in a deep breath. "I'm lonely in here – nervous too, I guess. I just wanted to talk." Alan's only answer was silence. He held his breath and placed his ear against the door, straining to hear any sound from outside. "Barry?" The door suddenly burst open, knocking the older man into the wall.

"You're lonely?" the gunman inquired angrily, aiming his weapon at Don. "I can _make_ you lonely real quick."

"No," Alan begged. "I just need to talk. And if you need any help in getting your demands, whatever, I want to help. I mean, the sooner you get what you want, the sooner I can get my son the help that he needs." His eyes held Barry's. "Please."

"Tell me something," their captor spoke, still keeping his gun trained on the injured agent. "What are you two doing out here in the middle of nowhere anyway?"

"We were camping and fishing. Just a little father-son vacation."

"Touching," Barry snorted in disgust. "So you care this much about him because he's your only child?"

Alan shook his head. "No. I have two sons. I'd never give up on either of them."

"Two sons?" Barry's eyes held an emotion that Alan couldn't quite decipher. "Where's the other one?"

Pausing only briefly before realizing that Barry couldn't very well get to Charlie, Alan answered, "He's at a math conference."

"Math?" Barry snorted. "Kind of girly, ain't he?"

"No, he's incredibly smart. In fact, he consults on cases for his brother. They work really well together."

"Brothers," Barry mumbled thoughtfully, his voice taking on a slightly gentler tone. He lowered the gun and gestured at Don with his other hand. "Older or younger?"

"Don is my oldest."

"He take care of your other son?"

"Always," Alan stated firmly. "No matter what the cost to himself."

"Their mother encourage that?"

"She did," Alan nodded as an expression of sadness appeared on his face. "She's... gone now."

"Gone as in dead?" Barry demanded, the anger creeping back into his voice.

"Yes. She died from can-"

"I should have known," he hissed as he pinned Alan against the wall. "You're all the same, aren't you?"

"What?" the older man asked in confusion. "I don't understand."

As their captor was about to place his gun to Alan's head, the store phone rang. "Saved by the bell, old man," he whispered menacingly. "But don't you dare try talking to me again. Got it?" Briefly casting Don an odd glance, Barry stormed from the office, slamming the door behind him.

Fully aware of how close he'd just come to dying, all Alan could do was slide down the wall as his knees gave out and pray that he hadn't made a mistake that would cost him and Don their lives.

--

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Megan couldn't help the grin that crossed her face as she watched Colby exit the rental office. He was quite obviously empty handed and kept his head down to avoid eye contact with Megan and David as he approached their SUV. Megan let out a small chuckle as she noticed David's eyes twinkling in amusement.

"No luck?" David called out from the back of the truck as Colby climbed into the passenger seat.

"No," Colby replied shortly, not wanting to discuss it any further.

"What about that Granger charm you were on and on about?" Megan teased.

"Well," Colby growled. "I _assumed_ there would be at least one woman working in the office. Not five men!"

"You know what they say about assuming..." David trailed off as Colby gave him a withering look.

"Yeah, I know."

"So," Megan smiled as she held out her hand. "How about my twenty bucks?"

"You didn't win the bet," Colby argued.

"Did you get the info we wanted?" she challenged.

"No, but there were no women working there."

"David," Megan called liltingly. "Did the bet have any conditions about women employees?"

"Why no, it didn't." David smiled brightly at Colby. "Pay up, man."

"No way!"

Megan was going to argue but stopped short as her cell shrilled. "Reeves." David and Colby continued playfully bickering until Megan's next utterance. "Oh my God. Where?"

The two male agents grew serious as they studied her face, their stomachs knotting as her expression tensed.

"We'll be there as soon as we can. Tell them to wait and not to do anything rash." She flipped her phone shut and slammed her hand on the steering wheel. "They _are_ out in Green Valley."

"And…" Colby prodded.

"There's a hostage situation in the gas station up there – a man is threatening to blow himself and two hostages up unless he gets in contact with someone in the media," Megan continued. "The rental truck parked in the station's lot is registered to Don Eppes. And the deputy that called this in reported visual confirmation of an older male hostage and a gunman."

"And Don?" David asked fearfully.

"The gunman has made contact with the sheriff once. Said he has a Federal agent as a hostage, but no one has actually seen him."

"No way Don would abandon his father," David insisted.

"I know," Megan agreed.

"So where's Don?" Colby asked. "And is he okay?"

"We're about to find out," Megan promised as she put the SUV in gear and sped out of the parking lot.

--

"Yeah."

"Now, Sheriff, is that anyway to answer your phone?" Rutherford's voice taunted.

"No reason not to," Morrison shot back. "You obviously know who I am."

"Still might want to at least try to sound professional."

"What do you want now?" the older man demanded.

"Just wondering where the media is? And what about those Feds? Awfully reckless not to meet those two small demands, considering the explosive potential of the situation."

"You don't have the _cojones_ to kill yourself," Morrison challenged.

"Maybe," Rutherford said. "But you'd hate to be wrong, wouldn't you?" Chris swiftly changed the subject. "These two hostages I've got – they were on a father-son fishing trip. Isn't that sweet?" He listened in satisfaction as the sheriff made an uncomfortable noise in the back of his throat. "Yes, you remember our trips, don't you?" Both men remained silent as they thought back to a time long ago...

"_Look, Dad!" ten year old Chris yelled excitedly. "I caught one!"_

_A young Roy Morrison walked to his son's side. "That's hardly a fish," he scoffed. "That's more like bait."_

"_It's not bad for his first one," another young boy, aged sixteen, argued._

"_Boy, don't talk back to me," Morrison growled. "Go on into the woods and get us some firewood for tonight."_

_The teenager looked nervous, especially as he saw the expression of fear on Chris' face. "But-"_

"_I said go!" Roy thundered._

_Chris watched as the sixteen year old reluctantly left, before meeting his father's expression._

"_So, boy," Morrison drawled as he grabbed a beer out of his cooler. "You going to clean that puny excuse for a fish?"_

"_Yes, Dad." He carefully took his filleting knife from his tackle box and removed the sheath. As he was poised to begin, his father's angry voice stopped him._

"_Give me that knife!" Roy yelled as he snatched it away from his son's hand. "Didn't I tell you to keep this thing sharpened?"_

"_Y-yes, D-dad."_

"_You call this sharpened?" he challenged as he leaned into the boy's face._

"_I forgot," Chris whispered._

"_That's no excuse," Morrison hissed as he seized his son's arm. "Gotta be taught a lesson."_

"_No!" Chris panicked. "I won't do it again! I promise, Dad!" As his father drug him toward the dock, the young boy desperately twisted within his grasp. "Please!" he tearfully begged._

"_Shut up and take it like a man!" With that being said, Morrison pinned his arm to the dock and slowly sliced the knife across the boy's forearm, ignoring his son's cries of pain. He methodically continued the process until Chris' arm was marked with six bleeding cuts. "Doesn't feel so good when the knife is too dull, does it boy?"_

"_Please stop," Chris sobbed._

"_Damn wimp!" Morrison roared as he backhanded his son hard enough that he tumbled to the ground. "I see I'm going to have to toughen you up some more." As he reached down to grab the boy's arm again, a large rock slammed into his back. Roy whipped around and found that the teenager had returned, just in time to interrupt Chris' discipline session. "You're asking for it, Gerald," Morrison threatened as he descended on the sixteen year old._

"_Yeah, well at least I have a chance against you!"_

"_That what you think?" the older man sneered as he grabbed the boy with relative ease and began a brutal beating, his fury increasing at his prey's refusal to cry. Morrison was only vaguely aware of Chris sobbing his brother's name in the background as the beating continued long into the darkness of night..._

"Yeah, you remember, _father_." Chris' tone had turned ice cold. "And soon the world is going to know about that, and everything else."

"You're some crazy loon with a bomb," Morrison pointed out. "No one's going to believe you."

"No, probably not," Chris agreed. "But they _will_ believe you."

"You think I'm going to confess to a bunch of crap I didn't do?"

"You will confess your sins – that's a promise." Chris moved closer to the store window, looking directly into the squad car and meeting Morrison's eyes. "And now, dear father, I think it's time that _you_ learned a lesson. You should have taken my demands seriously, and you didn't."

"You going to come out here and teach me?" the sheriff spat. "I'd welcome the chance to kick your-"

"No," Chris cut him off in a perfectly even tone of voice. "But you do need to be punished." Rutherford turned and looked back toward the rental truck, smirking as the deputy dug through the interior. "Marshall – that's his name, right?"

Morrison swallowed nervously and frantically waved his arms, trying to catch the young deputy's attention.

"Say, Sheriff, is he like a son to you? Because you'll love this next part..."

A second passed. A second in which Morrison became painfully aware of several details- that Chris had always had a knack for hunting and setting traps, that his son had a lot of experience handling explosives, and that there was a sinister looking brown box under the rental truck that could have easily been slid beneath it while the driver was pumping gas. Roy held his breath in a sort of morbid anticipation of what was about to happen...

The explosion was loud, but not earth shattering. Chris had no doubt intended for it to be that way, knowing that the force of the blast could damage the store windows and therefore set off the larger bomb as well. So he had carefully crafted a smaller, quieter, yet fatal bomb and wired it to detonate by remote. All of these thoughts continued to swirl through the sheriff's shocked mind as he stared at the spot where Marshall had just died.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

Alan had been lightly dozing, tightly holding his feverish son against him, when the sound of the explosion woke him. Startled, his eyes flew open and he realized with relief that the room they were in was still intact. His racing heart started to calm until Don screamed out.

"Charlie!" Don's face twisted in pain as he struggled against his father's embrace. "No!"

"Shh, Donny," Alan whispered as he tightened his hold. "It's okay. Charlie's okay, I'm okay, and you're... okay." He stumbled over the last word, knowing his oldest son was anything but okay, but Don was too far gone to notice.

"Charlie," Don cried out again, his voice raspy from his yelling.

"It's okay," Alan crooned as he stroked the younger man's face. "Shh, you're dreaming. It's okay."

Don continued fitfully tossing his head and trying to draw away from his father's touch. "Need to find him," he mumbled. "…Take care of him."

"He okay?"

Alan looked up in shock as he saw Barry standing in the doorway. "He's running a very high fever."

"Charlie – that's his brother?" Alan silently nodded. "You said he protects him?"

"Yes," Alan said as he graced Don with a loving gaze. "Ever since they were kids all the way through now. Charlie hasn't always appreciated it, of course, but Don thinks – knows – it's his job."

"Yeah," Barry said quietly. "So he's really hot?"

Alan rested a hand on his son's forehead and frowned. "Burning up."

"Would something out here help him?" Barry jerked his thumb at the store behind him.

Alan raised an eyebrow. "Yes. Ibuprofen or Tylenol would help lower his fever."

"Don't move, old man." Barry's threat was only half-hearted as he waved the gun in their general direction. "I'll see what I can do."

As Barry left, Alan pondered his sudden change in attitude toward Don. Although he couldn't fathom it, he wasn't about to question any change that went in Don's favor. As he waited for Barry to return, Alan lifted Don away from the wall and slid in behind him, lowering his son so that he was resting with his back on Alan's chest, his head pillowed on his father's shoulder. The older man held the sports drink to Don's lips and slowly tipped the bottle until the liquid drizzled into his son's mouth. Don muttered in protest and tried to turn his head, but Alan cupped his cheek and held him in place.

"You need to drink," he whispered in his exhausted son's ear. Don sleepily obeyed and his father was briefly reminded of feeding Don when he was a baby – helpless and completely dependent upon his parents. Though the thought made Alan sick, he couldn't help but think that's what they had returned to today – and he wasn't about to let Don down. "That's it."

"Here," Barry quietly spoke as he entered the room. "It's a bottle of ibuprofen. Maybe that will help him some."

Alan took the bottle and met Barry's eyes, making sure to give him a grateful smile. "Thank you."

Barry's tone immediately turned gruff. "Just keep him quiet, okay?" He turned and stalked from the room, closing the door behind him.

Alan shook his head as he opened the bottle of pain reliever. "I don't know what I did or said," he offered up quietly in prayer. "But please let me stay on a roll."

He placed two pills in Don's mouth and, after several awkward moments, he had his son washing them down with orange sports drink. "Good job," Alan softly praised him. "You just keep sleeping."

Alan's voice penetrated through the hazy swirl of pain and heat clouding Don's mind, bringing him back to the present. "Dad?" he whispered faintly.

"Shh, rest now. I'll be right here with you."

Too tired to argue, Don relaxed into the solid warmth and familiar scent that was his father, and allowed himself to be carried away on the gentle, undulating tones of his voice.

--

"Sheriff." Andrew paused as Morrison continued to gaze at the smoldering wreckage that had been the hostages' truck. "_Roy_."

The older man came out of his trance and met the deputy's eyes. "We should do something."

Andrew held back a gasp. "Yeah. I need to call in the coroner, don't you think?"

Morrison frowned. The county coroner in this little part of the world was an elected official and the office was currently occupied by Green Valley's prominent – well, _only_ – mortician. "I don't see what good dragging Evelyn down here would do. Marshall is beyond help, and it would just give _him_," the sheriff gestured hatefully at the store, "Someone else to injure. No, Andrew. Just let the Feds get here. Then they can decide what to do."

"Are you sure?" Andrew asked in disbelief.

Morrison laughed bitterly. "No, Andrew. I'm not sure of anything any more."

"I'll see how far out the Feds are," the younger man offered as he disappeared to his car. He sank into the driver's seat and studied his boss. He knew Morrison was hiding something, and apparently it was something big, but he had no idea what. He also knew that there was some sort of connection between the sheriff and the bomber, but he didn't have a grip on that either. Sighing, he got on his cell and dialed the contact number Marshall had slipped him earlier.

"Reeves."

Andrew hesitated at the strong, confident, female voice on the other end. "This is Deputy Andrew Waller. You're the contact for Agent Eppes' team?"

"I'm his second in command, yes," she answered. "Tell me, Deputy Waller, what's the current situation down there?"

"It's not good, I'm afraid. Sheriff's talked to the suspect twice. This last time... well, the suspect killed one of our deputies."

"How?"

"He planted a bomb under your boss's car. Set off the blast when he saw Marshall examining the interior."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Reeves told him, her voice full of a sincere warmth. "Any more news on the hostages?"

"No," Andrew told her. He hesitated, his gut telling him that he was speaking to a very competent, trustworthy agent, and that he should give her a heads up on the sheriff's secretiveness. "Agent Reeves, there's something else."

"Yes?"

"I'd appreciate it if you kept this quiet, because it's merely an observation."

"Of course," the agent assured him.

"I think the sheriff knows this guy pretty well from somewhere in his past. And I'm certain that he's hiding something, I just don't know what."

"I see."

"I can't very well dig into his background without him noticing, plus we just don't have those kinds of resources here." He paused, certain that if he was wrong, he'd just ended his career. "I think you should do the digging into his past."

"Sounds like a good idea," she agreed. "What's his name?"

"Roy Morrison. He moved out here about ten years ago from somewhere on the east coast. Virginia, maybe." He heard her muffled voice as she relayed the information to someone beside her.

"Okay, Deputy Waller-"

"Andrew, ma'am. We use first names around here."

"Okay then, Andrew," she spoke. "Call me Megan. And thanks for the heads up. We're about forty minutes out, so we should have something by the time we get there."

"Oh, and Megan? Call in an ambulance, paramedic, SWAT – whatever you need. The sheriff seems to be reluctant to involve anyone else."

"Will do, Andrew. See you soon."

--

"Fever gone down?"

Alan opened his eyes to see Barry standing in the doorway again. He really needed to quit dozing off – that wasn't doing him or Don any good. He laid a hand on his son's brow and frowned. "If it has, it's not nearly enough."

"Did you give him more of those pills?"

Alan shook his head. "He's already near the high end dose. I don't want to overload him on drugs on top of his injury and infection."

"You think he can make it?" Barry's voice had dropped to a whisper as he knelt just out of the other man's reach.

"If he gets help soon, yes." Alan studied Barry, still baffled by his change in attitude toward Don. "You have an older brother, I take it?"

Barry looked up, a fleeting look of immense sadness crossing his young face. "Yeah, I did," he spoke softly. "His name was Gerald. He used to..." Their captor trailed off and stared thoughtfully at Don. "He used to take care of me. Protect me from things. Tried to, at least."

"Sounds like a great man," Alan told him. "What happened?"

Barry's eyes turned cold and he glared at Alan. "My father happened." He sighed and sat on the floor. "That's why I'm here – to make him face what he did."

"I don't understand," Alan gently said. "How are you going to do that by taking us hostage in this tiny town?"

"This 'tiny town' is home to the big fish that I'm after," Barry laughed bitterly.

"Your father lives here?" Alan inquired.

"You got it."

They were interrupted as Don groaned and twisted in his father's arms, releasing a faint sob as he jarred his injured leg against the desk. Alan hugged him tighter, gently rocking him as he pressed a light kiss to his son's temple. "It's okay, Donny. Shh. Just lie still for me."

Barry watched in awe as the unconscious agent obeyed his father's words, pressing against the older man's chest and sighing deeply as he drifted back to sleep. He felt a twinge of jealousy as the older hostage tenderly caressed the Fed's cheek, wondering what it must be like for a father to love his son that much.

"We need to get his fever down," Alan spoke, consciously using the word 'we' in an attempt to make Barry feel needed by _someone's_ big brother.

"How?" the young man replied, unaware of the effect of Alan's words on him.

"There's an ice machine inside, right?"

"I think so," Barry nodded as he climbed to his feet. "I'll go grab a bag."

"Barry!"

The gunman turned around and fixed Alan with an intense gaze. The older Eppes held his breath, worried he might have pushed too hard. "My name's Chris."

"Chris," Alan smiled as relief filled his being. "That's a good name."

"My mother picked it out."

"Sounds like a good woman," Alan told him.

There was a barely perceptible waver in his voice. "She was."

"Grab some towels, too," Alan said. "Something we can wrap the ice in. Okay?" Chris nodded as he left the office. Alan uttered another prayer of thanks that their captor seemed to be getting attached to Don. Now, all he really needed to do was to find out what happened to Gerald and who Chris was after, knowing that information could prove invaluable if and when hostage negotiations ever started.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

"Thanks," Colby said as he disconnected his cell. He angled his body so that he was turned toward both Megan and David as the SUV continued on at break-neck speed. "Got the background check."

"And?" Megan asked impatiently as she flipped on the siren and sped through a red light.

"And the sheriff seems clean. However," Colby glanced down at his notes. "He did have a common law wife and two kids in Virginia. His wife, Sandra Rutherford, died over twenty years ago in an accident when her ten year old son, Gerald Rutherford, shot her. Then Gerald died in a hunting accident fourteen years ago. Roy Morrison stayed in Virginia until his youngest son, Chris Rutherford, turned sixteen. He left him with his grandparents and moved out here, where he worked his way up to town sheriff."

"Two gun related accidents in one family?" David asked. "That sounds suspicious."

"Yeah," Colby agreed. "Never could prove otherwise, although Morrison got a hard look from the authorities at the time."

"That's probably why he moved out here," Megan said. "To get away from living under all that scrutiny."

"Why wouldn't he bring his son?" David asked her.

"His son probably suspected the same things the authorities did. May also be because Morrison was reminded too much of his past when his son was around."

"Well, in either case, he's never going to be nominated for father of the year," Colby muttered.

"So," David thought aloud. "We're thinking this bomber may be Chris Rutherford?"

"Coming all the way out here from Virginia to do what? Prove his father is involved in those shootings? Get revenge for leaving him behind?" Colby shook his head. "You really think that's it?"

"Remember the bomber's demands?" Megan asked. "He wanted to talk to someone from the media. He has a story to tell, and I'm willing to bet it involves something Morrison would just as soon remain a secret."

"Do you really think a sheriff would risk two innocent men's lives over a family secret?" David asked incredulously.

"Depends," Colby said. "On just how big that secret is."

"It must be pretty big," Megan stated. "Deputy Waller felt compelled to tell me that the sheriff is reluctant to involve any one else. He even advised me that we would need to call in our own backup."

"HRT?" Colby asked as he flipped his phone open.

"Yes, and a medical unit, too," Megan nodded. "But ask them to standby out of sight. I have a feeling too many law enforcement officials might make our bomber uneasy. He's already killed a deputy."

"Damn," David whispered. "So he wouldn't hesitate to..."

All three agents grew silent as they worried for their friends' lives.

--

Chris walked past the store window without even looking out at the sheriff and deputy. He was aware that they were watching his every move, but his father knew better than to try anything – especially after losing one of his deputies. Rutherford felt a small twinge of remorse at the death of the young deputy, but it needed to be done. He had originally felt that way about the Fed, but things had changed significantly since then.

The young bomber couldn't believe that despite the raging fever and the obvious pain that the Fed was suffering from, his first words as he roused would be about his younger brother – insisting to know that he was safe. Chris had only known one other person like that and, as he opened the cooler to get a bag of ice, memories of his own older brother surfaced in his mind...

"_Ow," ten year old Chris whispered._

"_I know, bro," Gerald had replied sympathetically as he continued dabbing antiseptic ointment on his brother's injuries. "But we don't want those cuts to get infected."_

"_I'm sorry, Gerald," Chris whispered sadly._

"_Not your fault," the older boy promised, his voice also a whisper. Their father had passed out in a drunken stupor but they were still careful not to wake him. "Just because you forget something doesn't mean you should get hurt."_

"_But I got you hurt, too," the younger brother whispered. _

"_Nah, it's no big deal." Gerald carefully shifted the bag of ice from a bruise on his shoulder to a bruise on his lower back. "That's my job, okay? Promise me that you'll always remember that."_

"_But I should be able to stand up to him," Chris insisted. "I am a wimp."_

_Gerald seized his brother's chin, clamping his jaw firmly, but not painfully. "No, you aren't. I don't ever want to hear you say that again." He stared into Chris' eyes, gently shaking the boy when he remained silent. "Do you understand?"_

_Chris nodded and, as his big brother released his grip, he tightly hugged him. "You promise you're okay?"_

"_I promise, bro." Gerald hissed as his little brother pressed on a bruise. "Do me a favor, kiddo."_

"_Anything," the ten year old promised._

"_Fix me another bag of ice."_

_Chris nodded and silently slipped from their tent, creeping past their father where he lay unconscious. He grabbed a large plastic bag and filled it with ice from the beer cooler, his heart breaking as he saw the number of bottles left. He and Gerald would be in for even more hell tomorrow. He shivered in the warm, evening air and began walking back to the tent. Something caught his eye and he quietly approached his father._

_The filleting knife from earlier was sticking in the ground about a foot away from his father's hand. After beating Gerald to near unconsciousness, Morrison had thrown the knife down, and consumed three more bottles of beer. Chris had helped Gerald into their tent, relief washing over him later as he heard his father crash to the ground. He'd crept to the cooler then to get a bag of ice for his brother, too scared to even look in his father's direction, lest he wake up and come after him again._

_Now, as Chris stood over the prone man and studied his lax features in the moonlight, he noticed that his father didn't look nearly as scary, and an idea tugged at the back of the boy's mind. Cocking his head, he bent down and slowly reached out for the knife._

"_Chris!" Gerald quietly hissed from the tent. "Don't."_

_The young boy looked up and met his brother's eyes. He saw a pain in the blue orbs that he knew wasn't caused by the earlier beating. Chris rose, leaving the knife in its place, and returned to the tent. As he handed Gerald the bag of ice, his older brother pulled him to sit beside him._

"_You don't think like that, bro," Gerald lectured him. "If and when the time comes, I'll be the one who does it, okay?" His younger brother silently nodded and Gerald ruffled his hair. "Time to get some sleep. I'll keep watch tonight – you rest." The older boy urged Chris to lie down, guiding his head to rest on his thigh. _

"_Thanks, Gerald," Chris whispered as he fell asleep, confident that his big brother would keep him safe from the monsters of the night – both real and imagined._

Rutherford shook his head, clearing the memories from his mind. He pulled a bag from the cooler and grabbed two towels from the display of tacky, tourist must-haves. As he made his way back to the office, he did spare a glance in his father's direction and was satisfied to see the big man cowering in his seat, afraid of the demons that were about to come to the light of day.

--

"Here you go," Chris said as he set the ice and towels down next to Alan. "You'll have to take care of this part on your own."

"What are you going to be doing?" Alan inquired.

"I've got to deal with those yahoos out there. Sorry, old man."

Alan marveled at the sincere remorse in the bomber's voice, and the softness with which he said 'old man'. He mulled that over for a minute before turning his attention to Don.

Alan opened the bag and placed a handful of cubes in each towel, bundling them up into makeshift compresses. He placed one on his shoulder, so that the back of Don's neck was resting on it. He gently lifted his son's t-shirt and placed the other compress on his chest. Don shivered and tried to shove his father's hands away, but Alan captured them in his own and gave them a tight squeeze.

"It's okay," he whispered as he rested his head on top of Don's. "Just let the ice do its job. Shh, you'll feel better soon – I promise."

"Cold," Don mumbled as he weakly tried twisting out of his father's grasp.

"I know, but you need to cool off. You have a fever, Don." Alan easily maintained his grip against son's feeble attempt to free himself. "Relax for me, Donny. Can you do that?"

"Cold," the injured man mumbled again, beginning to pant from his struggles.

Shifting his grip up to Don's wrists, Alan locked him in a tight embrace, pinning his son's arms to his chest. "I've got you," the older man whispered. "Can you feel that? I'll keep you warm, but you have to let the ice do its job, okay?"

Don didn't answer but did turn his head to press his cheek into his father's shoulder.

"That's it," Alan soothed. Slowly, Don's body stopped shivering as the heat from his fever dulled the initial chill of the ice. After fifteen minutes, he repacked and moved the compresses to new locations, again struggling to keep his son calm. He kept up the cycle of bundle, shift, comfort for a little over an hour, until Don's body was no longer hot to the touch, and his son had fallen into a peaceful slumber.

--

Megan pulled the SUV into the lot of Turner's Gas and Go, quickly parking behind the sheriff's car. She peered into the store and saw a young man in his late twenties, with close cut blond hair. He held a gun in his right hand, which was casually resting on his shoulder. He gave her a big grin and a thumbs up before punching a number into his cell.

The three agents, having already donned their Kevlar vests just down the road, climbed out of the vehicle, guns drawn, and crouched behind the car. The sheriff rolled down his window and held a phone out to Megan. "He wants to talk to you."

Surprised, Megan took the phone and poised herself. "This is Special Agent Megan Reeves with-"

"The FBI," the man cut her off. "I ain't stupid you know. You're in a big SUV and your vests say FBI."

"Of course," she apologized. "I didn't mean to imply-"

"Look, just shut up and let me talk, alright? Now, the reason I wanted to speak to you is because the sheriff there doesn't seem to want to meet my demands."

"Which are?" Megan stalled for time.

"I want the media down here now. I have a very interesting story to tell, and I want it documented for the world to hear."

"Is this about your father, Chris?"

To her surprise the blond chuckled. "Good work, agent. Does that mean my dear father actually 'fessed up to knowing me?"

"What kind of media?" Megan asked, choosing to dodge Rutherford's questions. "TV? Print? Radio?"

"All of the above would be nice," Chris told her. "But I'll settle for a TV crew. If I talk to a newspaper reporter there's no guarantee that my story will be printed. TV stations seem to have a hard time passing up on situations like this."

"Local crew or national?"

"Don't bite off more than you can chew, agent. I don't figure a national crew will come out here for this. Local will be fine. One camera man and one reporter to come inside."

"Ah, Chris," Megan shook her head as she watched him through the glass. "You know I can't endanger anyone else."

"That's a pity," he said, and Megan _did_ sense a note of sorrow in his voice. "Your Fed buddy here needs help bad, but he's not getting it until I get what I want."

"How about me and another one of my agents come inside with a camera? I'll even have live feed run to a monitor out here where you can see it. That way you'll know we're being square with you."

"Let two agents waltz in here?" Chris mocked. "I don't think so. But as long as you're making a counter offer..."

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

"Hell no!" Morrison told her. "He'll kill me as soon as look at me."

"No he won't," Megan argued. "If he wanted to kill you, he would have done it by now. He's obviously had the chance, and the forethought, to rig a bomb to at least one thing out here. He wants you to confess – on tape – to what you did to his mother and brother."

"I didn't do a damn thing to them!"

"We're not saying you did, Sheriff," David chimed in. "But if you're willing to go in and confess, then he'll release the hostages."

"This isn't the FBI's normal way of doing business," Andrew pointed out. "You don't normally cooperate or give into the suspect's demands. What gives this time?"

"I'm a profiler," Megan explained. "And from all the evidence and background I've seen on this guy, I can tell you that he's not a threat as long as he gets what he wants."

"And you expect me to risk my life on your _theory_?" Morrison spat. "No thank you."

"I'm willing to risk my two friends' lives on it," she responded. "We have a couple of hours before I get the camera set up down here. Just think about it, Sheriff Morrison."

Megan nodded at her fellow agents and they followed her back behind their SUV. "Run some more details down on his wife and son's death," she whispered.

"You think that'll help?"

"I think Morrison is so comfortable with his new life here, that if we can show him it's going to be over, he'll have nothing to lose." She met their doubtful expressions. "Look, he was willing to sit here without notifying anyone else of the situation in hopes that it would just go away. That kind of irrational thought pattern demonstrates just how bad of a pinch he thinks he's in. Trust me – we can break him as long as we have the proper ammunition. Plus, promise of a court conviction may win the son over without having to send anybody else inside the store."

"Sounds good to me," David nodded.

"You're the profiler," Colby conceded. "I trust your judgment."

--

"Charles!"

The young professor stalled his friend by holding up an index finger as his father's voicemail picked up. "Yeah, Dad, it's me. I thought you two were leaving this morning, so I was trying to catch you. I guess the fishing was that good or you're still somewhere with no cell reception. Anyway, the conference ran late so we're on a later flight. Is there any way you can get there to pick me up? I should land around eleven thirty. Remember, I lost my cell so you can't call me. I'll just try you again when we get to Dallas. Bye." Charlie hung up the pay phone and looked at his friend. "What is it, Larry?"

"I was attempting to notify you of our most recent flight change."

Charlie groaned. "Another one?"

"I am afraid that we will not be arriving until one-thirty am."

Charlie sighed and dug in his pocket for more change. "I hate pay phones," he groused.

"Well if you hadn't left your cell phone at the terminal in Dallas-"

"Or if you carried a cell phone," the younger man cut him off in frustration.

"I have no intention of exposing myself to such technology when we can't accurately quantify the potential long term effects of-"

"Larry!" Charlie snapped.

"Yes, Charles?"

"Would you mind being quiet so I can leave my father _another_ message?"

--

Chris quietly entered the office and stared at his hostages. The Fed was asleep in his father's arms, his face having lost the bright red flush from earlier. The father was sleeping with his head on top of his son's, and their fingers were intertwined. He couldn't help the small smile that came to his face as he imagined what life could have been like with a father like... He suddenly realized he'd never asked the old man's name.

Alan's eyes blinked open and he smiled at the blond man. "His fever's down. Thanks for the help."

"You did it," Rutherford pointed out.

"But you brought me what I needed," Alan gently pointed out. "Thank you for that."

"I may have even better news," Chris told him. "I talked to some FBI chick and she's trying to make a compromise with me about my demands. It's one that I'd be willing to accept, too."

Alan's heart soared – that probably meant that Megan was here! "That's good," he nodded encouragingly.

"Yes, you'll get to get your son some help, and I'll get to bring my father to justice." Chris smiled. "Win-win situation, right?"

"Sounds like it."

"Well, I'm going to go wait for her call. Let me know if he gets any worse, okay?"

"I will, Chris. Thanks." Alan watched as the gunman left the room and leaned his head against the wall. He would never in a million years have thought that he would wind up chit-chatting with their captor, but it seemed to be helping Don, and that was all that mattered to Alan. Truth be told, he did have an ounce of pity for the younger man, because he sensed his father had really mistreated him and Gerald.

Alan was drawn from his thoughts as Don squeezed his hand. "Dad?" he gasped.

Alan's blood ran cold at the panic in his son's voice. "What is it, Don?"

"Chest... hurts."

The older man placed a hand right over Don's heart and began rubbing slow circles. "Just hang in there a little longer for me, okay?"

"Hard... to breathe," Don panted.

"Shh, don't talk," Alan told him. "Just try to relax. We'll be out of here soon." _I hope,_ he added silently.

--

"Hey, Megan." David jerked his head for her to come over.

"What's up?" she asked as she joined him.

"We got more info on the wife's death."

"Yeah?"

He nodded, checking to make sure Colby was keeping the sheriff distracted. "She was shot with Morrison's personal weapon in their kitchen. The official report is that Morrison was cleaning his gun, got up to get something from the living room, and Gerald picked it up off the table. He was playing with it and his mom surprised him and he accidentally pulled the trigger."

"But…" she prodded.

"I managed to get one of the original investigators on the phone. He's retired now, but he remembered every detail about the case. Said when they got to the scene there was very little blood on the kitchen floor, and the living room carpet smelled strongly of cleaner. Morrison said his wife had cleaned the carpet the day before, and it was still drying. Back then they didn't have Luminol, so they really couldn't counter his story."

"Anything else?"

"Yes. He said that Ms. Rutherford had an odd bruise that ran across the front of her throat, almost as if someone had pinned her up against a wall. He had a theory about why it was there. Said that Morrison planned to make it look like Gerald had done it all along, but to get the angle of entry right, he would have needed to have the bullet enter her body from a lower angle."

"So by pinning her up against something, he could fire and make it look like shot was fired from a shorter person," Megan concluded. "That's pretty clever."

"Yeah. He said if we got the chance to nail this guy, we should let him know so he can come cheer on the prosecution at the trial."

"Does he know anything about Gerald's death?" Megan asked.

"No, he was already retired by then. I'm still trying to get that investigator on the phone."

Megan glanced at her watch and frowned. "We don't have too much time left before the camera equipment gets here. See what you can do to speed this up." Her gaze rested on the sheriff's car. "I may just have to bluff him into agreeing to this."

Megan slid into the passenger seat next to the sheriff. "So, I've got some news," she offered.

"You going to get your hot shot HRT boys out here and fry the little creep?" he grumbled.

"No, not exactly. This news is a little older." She paused for emphasis. "About twenty years older."

Morrison met her eyes and she could see the fear in their depths. "What are you talking about?" he asked nervously.

"About an accident," she answered. "Only it wasn't."

"I don't know what you're trying to pull..."

"Of course you do, Sheriff. We know that you killed your wife. We know that you pinned her against the wall while you shot her. There was a bruise on her neck that was discovered during her autopsy. The medical examiner was very thorough back then. He took lots of pictures. Right now, I've got a team of agents going over every crime scene photo of your house, looking for the source of that bruising. Don't think we won't find it."

"You can't prove any of this," he scoffed.

"Not yet, but we will. And your life here will turn into a joke. Think about it, Sheriff. You're far too old to start fresh anywhere else."

"What do you want from me?" he growled.

"I want you to go in there and face your son. Confess your crimes to him on camera so he'll release those hostages."

"I didn't-"

"We both know you did," she cut him off. "But I could care less about that now. My main concern is saving my friends. Got it?"

Morrison just nodded as he stared down at the badge on his chest. "I _am_ a good sheriff," he meekly whispered before realizing that she had left him alone in the vehicle.

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

Alan frowned as Don started shivering in his arms. He felt his forehead which was almost cold to the touch and frowned at the bluish tint to his lips. "Donny?"

Don mumbled unintelligibly as his head lolled against his father's shoulder.

"_Donny_?" Alan repeated with a sense of urgency. "Open your eyes for me, son." Don remained unresponsive, despite his father's numerous attempts to rouse him. "Chris!"

The young man poked his head in the door. "What's wrong?"

"I think he's taking a turn for the worse. We've got to get him help."

"No can do until I get what I want," Chris said ruefully. "You know that."

"He's going to die," Alan whispered pleadingly. "You don't want that, do you? Would Gerald want that?"

"He'd understand what I'm doing," Chris replied. He stood over the two men and frowned at the Fed's pale complexion. "Tell you what, let's move you two into the store so you won't have as far to go when the time comes."

Chris grabbed Don's legs while Alan grabbed him under his arms. Together the two men lifted the injured agent and awkwardly shuffled into the store, settling Don right in front of the window. Alan sank to the floor behind him and cradled Don in his lap. "Hang on, Donny," he whispered. "It won't be long now."

--

Don's team let out a collective gasp as they got their first glimpse of their boss. He lay in Alan's arms, his skin practically translucent. The look of anguish on Alan's face did nothing to reassure them, either.

"Get on your phone and pretend you're talking to someone," Megan whispered to Colby. "We need to make Morrison think that we've found out about Gerald, too."

"Don't bother," the sheriff interrupted her as he wearily climbed out of his car. "I'll tell you all about that."

Megan raised an eyebrow. "You will?"

"We've got a few minutes before the cameras get here and I go inside. I might as well make sure an FBI agent knows the real story."

"Go on," Megan urged him.

"My wife's death – that wasn't an accident. You were right about that. But you've got the wrong killer. It _was_ Gerald that did it."

"A ten year old committed murder?" Megan's tone was doubtful.

"I was hard on the boys," Morrison reluctantly said. "Abusive at times. She knew about it and never once did she try to stop me. One day I started hitting Chris right in front of her while she cooked dinner. She was ignoring his cries for help and then Gerald walked in. He wasn't strong enough to get me to stop, so he grabbed my gun from the table and threatened to kill his mother if I didn't stop. I was drunk and full of hate, so I told him go right ahead. She told him to stop being stupid and put down the gun. He shot at her and missed high, right into the ceiling. Scared the crap out of her and she ran into the living room. He followed her and just as I was finishing up with Chris, I heard him fire again followed by her scream. I rushed in there but she was already dying. Wasn't just the gunshot that was affecting her, either. She'd hit her throat on the edge of the coffee table when she fell, and was having a hard time breathing. I made Chris go to his room, locked him in there, and made Gerald help me clean up. We moved her body and cleaned the carpet, and I staged the scene in the kitchen. Probably the kindest thing I ever did for either of my sons – covering that little incident up."

"Yeah, generous to a fault," Colby said sarcastically.

Morrison ignored him as he continued. "The hunting accident wasn't an accident, either. It was self-defense on my part. Gerald was eighteen years old, and had just graduated high school. We went hunting to have some man to man bonding time, although both of us knew that wasn't likely to happen. I left Chris at one of his friend's houses and me and Gerald drove out into the woods. That's when he told me that he was going to take Chris away from me. Said he'd tell the courts what I had been doing to them for all those years and they would gladly grant custody to him. I threatened to tell the police the truth about his mother's death. That set him off. I guess he was afraid if he went to jail, he wouldn't be able to protect Chris from me any more. Anyway, he came at me with a knife. We struggled and I finally had to shoot him to save myself."

Megan knew there had been no signs of a struggle in the woods near the body, and she could tell that Morrison was lying about what happened that day, although she did believe his story about Gerald shooting his mother. She decided to play along, as long as it would get Morrison to go in there and get Rutherford to free her friends. She nodded in understanding and placed a hand on the sheriff's shoulder. "You're a brave man to do this, Sheriff Morrison." Megan looked up as another SUV pulled into the lot, loaded with her camera setup.

She gestured to Colby and David to get the live feed monitor set up while she dialed Chris' cell. "They're here," she told him when he answered.

"Not a moment too soon," he said. "The Fed's looking pretty bad."

"So your father's coming in and I'm bringing the camera."

"I said no agents."

"No," she argued. "You said you weren't going to let two agents in. I'm only one, so it's going to be me and your father. That's the best deal that you're going to get."

"Whatever," he said casually. "Just don't try anything."

"I won't," Megan promised as she flipped her phone shut. She glanced at her two coworkers who mouthed 'five more minutes'. She nodded and stood next to Morrison. "You ready?"

"As I'll ever be," he whispered fearfully.

--

Alan's spirits lifted as he watched Megan approach the store with the sheriff by her side. "That's your father?" he asked in shock.

"Yes," Chris nodded. "Left all his problems behind to go solve someone else's. Hell of a guy, ain't he?"

"You deserve better," Alan stated with conviction. "You and Gerald both deserved better."

Chris smiled. "You know, I never did ask your name. Pretty soon you'll be leaving me and I'd like the honor of knowing it."

"Alan Eppes."

"Well, Mister Alan Eppes, you make sure your boys never forget what a great father they have."

"As if I don't remind them of that enough," he joked sadly.

Megan stood in front of the door, her focus on Chris. "Are you going to let us in?"

Rutherford pressed a button on his remote and beckoned her and his father inside. "Hello, Dad. Happy to see me?"

"Let's not mess around," he snapped. "I'm here like you asked, so let those men go."

"Yes," Chris smiled. "We could use some alone time." He gestured at Megan. "Help Mister Eppes carry his son out of here, please."

She was immediately at Don's side, placing a hand on Alan's shoulder as she knelt beside them. "How is he?"

"Not good," Alan answered. "He needs help soon."

"You grab his right arm and I'll get his left, and we'll get him out of here."

"Donny!" Alan called as he lightly slapped his cheek. His son groaned in response, but his eyes remained closed. "You have to try and move your feet, okay? We're going to get you out of here and get you some help. Do you hear me, Don?"

While Alan tried to rouse his son, Megan looked at Chris. "May I please have the ambulance come right up to the door?"

"Tell them to stay back by the gas pumps," he told her.

"Thank you." She radioed her order and watched as the ambulance sped to the requested location. She looked down at Don, surprised to see his eyes open and looking at her, though they lacked any sign of recognition. "How're you feeling, Don?" she asked softly as she placed his arm over her shoulder.

His dull gaze stayed on her face and the faintest of whispers issued forth from his mouth. "Hurts."

"We'll have that taken care of in no time," she promised as she gently rubbed his arm. "Just hold on." She nodded at Alan and together they lifted Don to stand between them. He let out a moan of pain, but did move his feet in a clumsy attempt at walking. Her anxiety started to lessen as they moved further and further away from the store.

When they reached the ambulance, the paramedics already had the stretcher ready and waiting. She and Alan lowered Don onto it while one of the medics lifted Don's feet up, careful not to aggravate the gunshot wound. They strapped him down and loaded him into the back. Megan gently pushed Alan inside. "We'll be there as soon as we can," she promised him. To the medics, she added, "Take good care of him, guys."

--

Chris watched as the ambulance sped away, truly wishing the best for Alan and his son. His eyes followed Agent Reeves as she disappeared back to the group of squad cars before he turned to face his father.

"Well," he said, staring at the older, worn down version of his childhood nightmare. "I'm surprised you came. You knew what I wanted."

"Yeah, I did," Morrison admitted. "As soon as you offered to 'compromise'. The FBI woman – she said that if we gave you what you asked, you wouldn't kill anyone."

Chris shrugged. "She was mostly right."

"Yeah… I guess so. Mind if I call her? I want to let her know, so she can leave this with a clear conscience."

"It amazes me that you actually have a good thought every once in a while," Chris laughed. "You were always such a creep when I was a kid."

"I did have my problems, but that was no reason to take them out on you." He met his son's eyes. "I want you to know that I really am sorry about that."

"Duly noted," the young blond sighed. "Better make that call."

"You did rig it…"

"My calculations are always good," he snapped. "It won't even be that big really – just big enough."

"Alright then." Morrison dialed Megan's cell. "Agent Reeves," he answered as he watched Chris' thumb hovering over a button on the remote. "Just wanted to let you know..." The younger man's thumb was on the button now. "It's not your fault." The muscles in the bomber's arm began to tighten. "I knew this would happen."

"What are you talking-" Those were the last words Sheriff Morrison ever heard, before a loud roaring sound carried him and his son away to eternity.

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

Megan, the other agents and the deputy stared at the burning store in shock. She couldn't believe that Rutherford had blown himself up. She just _knew_ her profile had been right...

She heard sirens and looked over her shoulder to see the HRT van flying into the lot, its tires squealing as the driver brought it to a sudden halt. The captain of the unit hopped out of the vehicle and stormed to Megan's side. "What happened?" he demanded.

"Rutherford set it off," she answered.

"You mean you convinced a law enforcement officer to go in there, just so he could get killed?" The captain was angry, having argued with Megan earlier about the foolishness of her idea. "You sentenced him to death."

"He knew it would happen," she whispered in disbelief as she met the other man's eyes. "He said he knew the whole time."

"You wouldn't be trying to cover for yourself, would you?"

"No, she isn't," Deputy Waller said as he stepped between the female agent and the captain. "Something in the sheriff changed right before he went in there. In my opinion, he _had_ resigned himself to die."

"You think your opinion matters?" the captain asked angrily.

"Yes. Considering how long I've known Roy, I think it does."

"We heard him on the phone," Colby said as he gestured to himself and David. "He knew he was going to die."

"You heard that, huh? With your psychic powers?"

"No," David replied testily. "He was speaking into the phone very loudly. We could hear the gist of what he was saying."

"Sure you could," the captain barked. He looked Megan in the eye and jabbed a finger at her chest. "This isn't over, Agent Reeves. I can promise you that." He turned and stalked back to his van, climbing in and motioning for the driver to take them back to the office.

"It's okay, Megan," David said as he lay a hand on her shoulder. "We've got your back."

"Thanks," she whispered. "But I'm not entirely blameless." She looked down at her hands, imagining them covered in the sheriff's blood. "If you guys don't mind getting the crime scene guys in here, I want to go ahead and get back to the office."

"Need a ride?" Colby asked in a surprisingly gentle tome of voice.

"Thanks, Granger, but I'll be fine."

David and Colby watched Megan's silhouette as she walked away into the setting sun, defeat obvious in every part of her body.

--

Alan sat in the waiting room of Northbay Medical Center, studying the well worn tiles on the floor and trying to deal with the sudden wave of exhaustion that had come over him. He'd arrived quite a while ago, but everything since then had been a blur. He was certain he'd remembered to call David and tell him about Charlie's conference and what time his flight was getting in. Beyond that, Alan's mind hadn't really been able to string together any coherent thoughts.

He scrubbed his hands over his face in frustration as images from the ambulance ride played in his mind. Images of Don, his complexion paler than Alan could ever remember seeing it, tearfully asking his father if he could go to sleep now. Images of the medic recording his son's vitals with a worried look on his face before calling out to his partner to 'Step on it'. Images of his oldest boy being whisked away from him into the emergency area while a kind nurse gently steered him to the waiting room with a promise that she would personally keep tabs on Don's condition.

Alan shook his head and studied the clock on the wall. Eleven o'clock at night? Could that be right? Had it really only been just over twelve hours since this whole ordeal had begun? Alan felt like he'd aged ten years in this one day alone. He wearily sank into the uncomfortable chair, welcoming the twinge of pain in his back as it helped distract him from unwanted thoughts of what might be happening with Don.

Around midnight, the nurse he had seen earlier appeared by the exhausted man's side, lightly shaking his shoulder to wake him up. "Mister Eppes?"

Alan's eyes shot open, darting around the room as he experienced a moment of disorientation. "Yes?" he asked hopefully.

"Don's out of surgery. He's in recovery right now and we should be moving him to a room very soon."

"So he's okay?"

She smiled and nodded. "He'd lost a lot of blood, but we gave him a transfusion, got some fluids in his system and patched up the gunshot wound. He's going to be fine."

"Thank God," Alan whispered.

"There's a little infection, too, but we have him on antibiotics for that." She patted the older man's shoulder. "Normally we have very strict visiting hours, but I discussed your situation with the doctor. He's agreed to let you stay around the clock for the next two days, at which point it should be safe to relocate your son to a hospital closer to home."

"Thank you, Alice," Alan replied as moisture gathered in his eyes. "You have no idea how much that means to me."

"I have two sons, myself. I know how I'd feel if they were hurt and such a long way from home." She pointed to a bundle she had placed on the chair beside him. "Scrubs and a towel. I thought maybe you'd want to clean up a bit while we're waiting on Don to be moved into his room."

"That sounds wonderful," he thanked her.

She led him to a private office with an adjoining bathroom, explaining the doctor was on vacation this week, and told Alan to take his time. She promised to come and get him when Don was ready, before leaving Alan alone in the room.

The tired man made his way to the sink and turned the tap on, letting the water run for a minute to warm up. He looked down at his hands and, for the first time, noticed that they were covered in dried blood. Don's blood. His _son's_ blood. His stomach turned and Alan dashed for the toilet, reaching it just in time to empty its meager contents. As he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he flushed the toilet and returned to the sink. He pressed the soap dispenser until the palm of his hand was overflowing with soap, and roughly scrubbed at the blood until it began to fade. The water draining from the sink had taken on a deep pinkish red tint, a la Psycho, and Alan squeezed his eyes shut, unable to bear the sight of more blood today. When he was certain it was safe to look, he opened his eyes and examined his hands, finding that they were no longer red, but bright pink due to his vigorous scrubbing.

Alan looked down at the clothes he was wearing and was again overwhelmed at the amount of dark red staining his shirt. He briefly wondered how his son could have lost that much blood and still be alive, but quickly shoved that thought away. He turned the shower on, making sure the water was as warm as he could stand it, stripped off his soiled clothes and stepped into the welcome warmth. He merely stood in the stream of water as it washed over him, his body relaxing as the stress of the day melted away and flowed down the drain.

Fifteen minutes later, Alan was clean, dry, and wearing a dark green set of scrubs. He was perched on the edge of the office couch, eagerly waiting for the nurse to come retrieve him. It wasn't too much longer before she did just that, knocking on the door and poking her head in when he answered.

"Don's been moved to his room," Alice told him. "Are you ready to see him?" At Alan's nod she smiled brightly. "I thought you might be."

She led him through a maze of corridors until they reached a wing of private rooms. "There's a recliner in each of our private rooms, but I've also had a cot brought in since you'll be staying with us."

"That's very thoughtful, thank you."

"My pleasure. Also, I know you may not be very hungry, but the kitchen doesn't open until seven tomorrow morning, so I've left a sandwich, chips, and a Coke in the room for you. If possible, you need to eat so you can stay strong for your son."

"I'll keep that in mind," he replied as she opened the door to room 308, leading him inside.

"Private bathroom there," she whispered as she gestured at the door on the right. "Closet here, on the left. If you need anything, your duty nurse is Sarah. Her name is written on his board," she gestured to a dry erase board on the wall opposite Don's bed. "I'll be getting off duty soon, but I'll be by to check on you two in the morning, okay?"

"Thank you, Alice," Alan whispered. "You've been so kind."

"Don't mention it, Mister Eppes."

"Alan," he smiled. "Please call me Alan."

"Alright. See you tomorrow, Alan." She left, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

Alan stood next to the hospital bed and stared down at the pale figure cocooned in sheets and blankets. He reached out and placed a hand on Don's cheek, frowning at the warmth he felt radiating from the skin. He glanced at his son's IV bag to reassure himself that Don was getting the medicines he needed, antibiotics included. Satisfied that all seemed to be in order, Alan strained to move the recliner until it was almost touching the bed. He sank into it with a low groan, his muscles finally speaking out about all of the abuse they had been put through from bending and sitting on a hard floor all day, not to mention carrying around his full grown son's weight. Sighing as he relaxed into the welcoming cushions, the older man reached out and intertwined his fingers with Don's, careful not to dislodge the IV in the back of his hand. He brought their hands to his lips and placed a soft kiss on his son's fingers, before resting their joined hands on his chest. He lightly rubbed his thumb across Don's knuckles and smiled at his injured son.

"I'm here, Donny. We'll just rest for a while." As Alan spoke, his eyelids grew heavy and he blinked sleepily in an effort to stay awake, but his body and soul were too tired and he soon joined his son in a peaceful slumber.

--

"Thanks a lot, Dad," Charlie grumbled as he paid the cab driver and stormed up the walkway to his house, passing by a black SUV he assumed was his brother's. The light in the living room was on and only served to intensify the young man's anger. He stuck the key in the door and turned the lock, telling himself his father probably had a good reason for not picking him up, but not believing himself at all. As he walked through the door, he immediately turned around to close and lock it. "Hey, Dad! You might want to check your messages every once in a while."

"It's me, Charlie."

The professor jumped a foot in the air as David's voice spoke from behind him. He whipped around and his weary eyes confirmed that the agent was in his living room at – he glanced at his watch – two in the morning. "David?" he asked nervously. "What are you doing here?"

"I've got some bad news," David spoke softly. "Don and your father were involved in a hostage situation today."

"You mean that Don made Dad wait in the car while he negotiated with some crazy man, right?" Charlie's tone was pleading and his eyes implored David to answer 'yes'.

"I'm afraid they were the hostages. The standoff lasted most of the day and..." David studied the professor's face as it drained of color. "Maybe you should sit down."

"No," Charlie snapped. "Tell me."

"Don was shot in the leg. When we finally got them released, he was in pretty bad shape." Seeing Charlie's face grow even paler, he quickly added, "He's fine, though. Made it to the hospital and he'll be good as new in a few weeks."

"What about Dad?"

"He wasn't injured at all," David promised. "He has been through the emotional wringer. He was with Don the whole day, right there with him as he..." David couldn't believe the words that were coming out of his mouth – Charlie didn't need to hear all of the gory details. "They're both fine, but I wanted to pick you up and take you to them."

"Are they at UCLA?" Charlie asked as he grabbed his overnight bag and pulled the clothes from the trip out.

"No," David informed him. "They were up in Green Valley when this happened. Don's at Northbay Medical in Fairfield."

Charlie raised his eyebrows. "That's a ways away. Let me pack some stuff for me and Dad and then I'll be ready to go."

David nodded as the young man disappeared upstairs. He was honestly surprised at the level of composure with which the younger Eppes was handling the situation. Not that he'd expected him to run and hide or break down in a fit of sobbing, but David himself had seemed more affected by what had happened to Don. Of course, Charlie had yet to see his older brother's current condition and when he did, well… that might be the tipping point.

The sound of steps thundering down the stairs drew David's attention. Charlie nodded at him as he slung the overnight bag over his shoulder and grabbed his laptop. "Let's go."

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

A soft groan cut through Alan's dreams and drew him back to the present. He looked at Don, whose eyes were twitching under his lids. He groaned again and his brow creased in pain. "Dad," he muttered as his hand spasmed in Alan's grasp.

Alan leaned forward, maintaining his grip on Don's hand, as he rested his other one on his son's forehead. "Can you hear me?" he called softly.

Don's eyes twitched more quickly at the sound of his father's voice, but he remained silent.

"Donny?" Alan called again as he ran his fingers through his son's soft, dark hair. "Are you with me? Can you open your eyes?"

"Dad," Don breathed softly as he rolled his head to face his father. His eyelids fluttered and finally slid open, the brown orbs drifting aimlessly around the room until they landed on Alan's face. "Dad."

"It's me," the older man smiled as he continued the soothing motions through Don's hair. "It's nice to see you awake."

Don blinked, but lacked the energy to do much more than that.

"Are you in pain?"

"No," Don answered with a breathless whisper. "Where…?"

"Are we?" Alan finished. "A hospital in Fairfield. Do you remember what happened?"

Don's eyes were dull as he studied his father's face, trying to remember anything from that day. Suddenly the memory of a searing, white hot jolt to his leg sprang into his mind, and Don gasped. "Shot?"

"Yes – in the leg. I thought you weren't in pain," Alan replied, alarmed by his son's reaction. "I can get you something."

"Not hurt." Don weakly shook his head. "Remembering."

"Well, try to think of something more pleasant," his father suggested.

"Like?"

"How about the nice, huge rib-eyes I plan on grilling when you get out of here?"

"Nice," Don softly sighed.

Alan chuckled. "I thought that might do it." He leaned over and placed a tender kiss on Don's forehead. "Get some more rest now, son. I'm not going anywhere."

"...Kay." Don concentrated on the hand running through his hair, letting the soothing rhythm carry him off to sleep.

--

Charlie quietly slipped though the door to room 308, setting his bag and laptop by the closet before moving to his brother's side. His heart ached as he studied the ghostly white figure lying motionless under the covers. _Oh my God,_ he thought to himself. _What did he do to you?_ David had filled him in on the basics during the ride up to Fairfield, but nothing the agent had said was enough to prepare him for actually _seeing_ Don. Charlie unconsciously reached out to place a hand on Don's leg, and nearly jumped out of his skin as his father grabbed his wrist.

"Stop!" Alan whispered loudly. "That's his injured leg."

Charlie yanked his hand away as if he'd been burned, mortified that he'd been about to inflict more pain on his brother. "God, Dad. I'm sorry."

"That's okay," his father assured him. "You didn't know."

Charlie nodded and made a point to stand right next to Don's head, away from the injured limb. He reached out and placed a hand on his brother's shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. "He's going to be okay, right?" he asked his father.

"He'll be fine," Alan affirmed. "He's just got a lot of bed rest in his future."

Charlie couldn't help but grin. "He's not going to be 'fine' with that."

"Let's not even go there yet." The older man sighed as he pointed at the cot. "You can crash there. The staff is being kind enough to let us stay all day since we live so far away."

"Thanks, but I don't think I'll be sleeping much." Charlie picked up Don's free hand and examined the long, graceful fingers closely. "I'm not used to him being so still. It scares me."

"He's going to be fine, Charlie. Like I said – he just needs a lot of rest." Alan tried to stifle a yawn, but failed miserably.

"Why don't you get some sleep, Dad? I'll keep watch over him."

His father paused only long enough to let out another yawn before rising and moving to the cot. "Thanks, Charlie. Wake me…"

"If anything happens," the younger man finished. "I will." As Alan collapsed onto the cot in exhaustion, Charlie settled himself in the recliner, reaching over and grasping Don's hand. Unknowingly copying his father's earlier position, he laced his fingers through Don's and held their hands against his chest. "I've got you now, bro. Rest easy."

--

Colby entered the FBI office early the next morning and wasn't surprised to find Megan there, fast asleep at her desk. He knew the previous day's events had been rough on her, but he also believed that she wasn't to blame for anything that happened. Allowing someone else to enter the store had definitely been against procedure, but there were also extenuating circumstances. Colby slipped into the break room and made a cup of coffee just the way Megan liked it, and returned to her desk. He sat the gift next to her head and chuckled as her nose twitched at the pleasant aroma. She finally dragged her eyes open, a small smile crossing her face at the coffee cup in front of her. "Thanks, Granger," she said as she sat up and sipped the hot beverage.

"So, you spent the night here?"

"Didn't plan to, but yeah – I guess I did."

"You know that no one blames you, right? I mean, you've got three witnesses who are all on your side."

"Make that four," David said as he joined his fellow agents.

"Four?" Megan queried.

"The camera – you turned it on before you left."

"No I didn't," she told him. "I didn't get a chance to."

"Really?" David asked in surprise. "Well, someone did. We've got video and audio of Morrison's call to you. Clear evidence that he knew what he was doing was tantamount to suicide, but that he chose to do it anyway."

"Review board won't care," Megan sighed. "I did make a bad judgment call – we all know that. I went against procedure and two men lost their lives."

"But," Colby quickly argued. "If you hadn't, two men – Alan and Don – would have lost _their_ lives, and who knows how many others. You made the best call you could under tough circumstances. The review board will have to see that."

"You've been in front of them before," Megan said to Colby. "When that guy shot up the office. Did you find them to be supportive of your situation?"

"Good point," Colby muttered.

"Don..." David trailed off as he thought of his injured boss. "When he gets back, he'll make sure nothing bad happens to you."

"I know," the female agent agreed. "It's the 'before he gets back' part that I'm worried about."

--

"No!"

The anguished cry jolted Charlie awake and he instantly turned his attention to the man on the bed, only to find that Don was still sleeping peacefully.

"Please," a low, pleading voice came from across the room. "Stop hurting him."

Charlie jumped to his feet and darted across the room to his father's side. "Dad! Dad, wake up – you're dreaming." Charlie shook the older man's shoulder until his eyes sprang open.

"Charlie?"

"Yeah, Dad. It's me." The professor leaned back, giving his father space to get oriented. "Bad dream?"

Alan's face drained of color and he lunged for the garbage can, barely making it in time to lose his lunch. He became aware of Charlie's hand lightly rubbing up and down on his back as his youngest son whispered in his ear.

"I'm okay now, Charlie," he said as he moved back to the cot. "Thanks."

"What were you dreaming?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Alan said evasively.

"Talking is the only way you're going to learn to deal with it," Charlie insisted. His father remained silent, so he pushed. "He hurt Don in front of you, didn't he?"

Alan squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath, attempting to fight down the sickness. "Please, stop."

"Talk to me, Dad."

The older man sighed and sagged against the wall next to the cot. "Yes, he hurt your brother in front of me. Are you happy now?"

"Obviously that's not what I meant. Just talk to me."

Alan eyed Charlie and took a deep breath. "He shot him. Don was getting his wallet to pay the cashier and the man just pulled out a gun and shot him. Made him lie there, bleeding on the floor, until he figured out where he wanted us. I... I had to help your brother walk to the back of the store. I could tell I was supporting almost all of his weight – that's how badly he was hurt." Alan paused as tears welled.

Charlie placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Go on," he quietly urged.

"He locked us in a room and wouldn't let me get anything to help Don. We were in the middle of a convenience store with almost everything I needed to be able to comfort your brother, and Chris wouldn't let me."

"You called him by his first name?" Charlie asked skeptically.

"Long story," Alan told him. "Anyway, he came in a couple of times and got really angry. That's when he... he would..." Alan buried his face in his hands and shook his head. "He would grind his heel in your brother's wound. The sound your brother made..." Alan's voice cracked as he trailed off.

Charlie fought back a wave of white hot anger as he imagined a pain so intense that it would cause his stoic brother to cry out. It was a good thing the bomber had died, because Charlie felt that for the first time in his life he might actually be capable of taking another person's life. He took several deep breaths and forced himself to calm down. Looking back at his father he casually suggested, "You might need to find someone to talk to about this."

"I appreciate the concern Charlie, but I'll be fine. It's just still fresh on my mind."

"If it's still haunting you in a few weeks-"

"Then I will take your advice," Alan smiled.

They both looked up at the bed as Don shifted his good leg. His eyes opened and he silently stared at the ceiling in confusion. Charlie rushed to his side and Alan remained on the cot, sensing his youngest son wanted some alone time with his big brother.

"Don?" Charlie called eagerly.

The injured man's eyes slowly shifted to the side until he was looking at his brother. "Hey, Buddy." His voice was raw and scratchy, but it was music to Charlie's ears.

"How're you feeling?"

"Good drugs." Don gave him a loopy grin and Charlie burst out laughing.

"Glad to hear it, bro." He placed a hand on Don's forearm and squeezed. "By the way, no more fishing trips when I go out of town, got it?" At Don's puzzled look, Charlie grinned. "Apparently I'm your good luck charm. Dad told me how you two didn't catch a single fish, and then this happens? No sir – I'm going on every trip you take from now on."

"Thought you didn't believe in luck," Don teased.

"You know what they say – you don't know what you've got till it's gone." Charlie leaned forward and held Don's gaze. "And I have no intention of finding out how that applies to my big brother."

Don felt his brother's words enveloping him like a warm, loving embrace. He had a sudden urge to express that sentiment, and decided he could blame it on the drugs later on if Charlie started teasing him. "Love you, Buddy."

"Back atcha, bro."

TBC


	14. Chapter 14

Megan softly knocked on the door to the Eppes house. Alan cracked it open and smiled at her. "Megan, how nice to see you." He stepped back and opened the door wider. "Come in, come in. I have to do something upstairs, but Don and Charlie are in the living room."

She walked around him and into the living room, where she found Don stretched out on the couch, his injured leg resting on a pile of cushions befitting a king. He beamed at her and waved her over. "How's life at the office?"

"It's a chore to keep Granger in line, but I do enjoy a challenge." She sat in a chair and gestured to his leg. "How's the limb?"

"Still sore from time to time, but doing a lot better overall. PT is a pain, though. We ought to put those people on the Most Wanted List, sadists that they are." At her stricken expression he laughed and held up a hand. "I'm kidding, of course. My PT is a slave driver, and I swear she wants to see me cry, but because of her I'll be good as new in no time."

"Megan!" Charlie cheerfully greeted her as he entered the room with two drinks in his hand. He handed one to his brother and offered the other to Megan, who shook her head. He plopped into the chair next to her and chuckled as his brother's expression.

"This is a Coke," Don stated, his tone flat.

Charlie grinned at Megan. "You can see that my brother hasn't lost those honed investigative skills he relies on so much."

"I asked for a _beer_," Don grumbled.

"Not while you're still on your pain meds – you know that. And I swear, if you say you'll stop taking them so you can have a beer, I'll hurt your other leg."

"You know, you just can't find good help these days," Don complained to Megan.

She laughed, enjoying the playful banter between the brothers. "I'm just glad everything turned out okay."

"Yeah, about that," Don said as he nodded his head for Charlie to give them a moment in private. After his brother was gone, he continued, "I heard about the review board. For what it's worth, I don't agree with them at all. You made a very sound decision based on the circumstances that you were facing. I'd have probably done the same thing." He sighed. "But it was a procedural violation and they have a job to do, too. I want you to know the note they put in your file will never affect any decision I make regarding you and your assignments, recommendations for promotions, whatever. But I also can't take it out – it's permanent."

She smiled, happy that Don was supporting her the way she knew he would. "I appreciate you saying that."

"You saved my father's life, my life – I owe you more than I'll ever be able to repay you. But I can at least start by saying thanks."

"Anytime," Megan assured him.

"So, Megan," Alan smiled as he came down the stairs. "What brings you by?"

"Just wanted to check up on my boss."

"Ah yes, he's doing just fine. Stubborn, grouchy..."

"So in other words, perfectly normal?" she laughed.

"Exactly," Alan winked. "I'm going out for a while. I'll be back in time for dinner."

"Where are you going, Dad?" Don called, but his father had already slipped out the front door.

--

Alan stepped out of his car and eyed the empty area around him. It didn't look the same now – the store had burned down to the ground, and the gas pumps had been removed, probably by the fire department while they were fighting the blaze. Alan glanced over to where Don had parked the truck when they stopped for gas. His heart twinged as he thought of the fishing gear they had lost – some of it having belonged to Margaret, and as such being irreplaceable. He quickly reminded himself that the most important irreplaceable thing – his son – had survived the encounter.

Alan cautiously approached the burned out building, almost as if he expected to hear Chris' voice. There was a raging conflict in his mind that revolved around the young bomber. On the one hand, he had shot Don and inflicted a lot of additional tortures on him. But he had also shown compassion toward both Don and Alan at the end. His childhood had been rough – he had as much as told Alan that – but it had been the information that Alan had persuaded David to give him that had sealed that theory. He could only imagine how rough young Charlie's life would have been if Don hadn't been around. Even with two loving parents, the world was still a cruel place to the boy genius. Alan's heart ached with sympathy at the thought of a little boy trying to grow up into a man with his father mercilessly beating him down every step of the way, and the sadness Chris must have felt when his lone protector – his beloved big brother – had been killed by their abusive father. It certainly didn't excuse what Chris had done just over two weeks ago, but it helped Alan understand the reasoning behind it all.

Alan carefully stepped through what would have been the door to the store and navigated around several charred, unrecognizable objects, until he reached where the office had been. He quietly studied the place where he had been certain that he was going to lose his oldest son. He felt a tear roll down his eye and quickly swiped at it. Turning around, he moved back the way he came and stopped right where the beer display had been – right where the bomb had been.

Alan carefully placed the object in his hands, a bouquet of white flowers, on top of the charred crater. He'd chosen white for innocence – something Chris Rutherford had never really been given a chance to experience.

"I hope you've found your peace, son," Alan whispered sorrowfully. "I really do."

With that Alan returned to his car, climbed in and began the drive back to Los Angeles. In the hospital Charlie had suggested that he speak with someone about the incident to help deal with it. Seeing the wisdom of the idea, Alan had just taken his advice. Now that he'd spoken to the one person that he knew would understand, he felt free to move on with his life.

The End


End file.
